


Formidophobia

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: The Autumn Effect [21]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Geese, Gen, Phobias, This Is Halloween, This turned into the 'Bad Things Happen When You're Mean to Jonathan Crane' collection, and that's just fine, fear toxin, the doctor will see you now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 39,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: What are you afraid of, Gotham?





	1. Chiroptophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: My, my, time does fly, doesn’t it? It’s that time of year again!
> 
> Fittingly for our fear-fond-friend, this year’s collection is phobias, ranging from the practical to the bizarre. Title of the collection is ‘fear of scarecrows’, and title of this one-shot is ‘fear of bats’.
> 
> Gotham-verse, sort of, deviates like nobody’s business. Recommended listening: ‘East Hastings’ from Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

Bruce lets himself into the warehouse with only a little noise. Alfred will know he’s out by now, and he won’t be happy, but…this isn’t _right_ , what they’re doing. People are dying. Jim…Jim might not be okay because of them, and Bruce…

Bruce doesn’t want any more people to die.

Crane’s men are scattered, relaxed but armed, and Bruce eyes the other end of the room. There’s a door there, and he’ll bet it leads to Crane’s lab. And, hopefully, samples.

But first he needs them not to be looking.

He’s not an idiot. It’s suicide to take on this many armed men. But he can outwit them, turn their attentions elsewhere.

And that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

He climbs down, sticking to the shadows by the wall, and sets his sights on a pile of crates. They’re his best bet-there’s canisters all over the room, but if they’re holding what he thinks they’re holding, he doesn’t want to topple them.

“-happened to Steve?”

Bruce keeps an ear out. Any information is better than none, even if it’s just gossip.

“Ran his mouth off, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. Crane called him in, two days later I gotta dump his body in the river.”

Hm. Silencing witnesses? Or short-tempered?

He files that away for later and darts behind the boxes. Okay, he’ll knock them over and run-there’s a set of stairs, poorly lit, about twenty feet away. He can hide there, and use his…he supposes it’s a grappler. It looks like the one from the _Zelda_ games. It isn’t great, but it supports his weight. He’ll use it to swing closer to that door while they’re busy with the boxes.

He shoves the boxes over and sprints for the stairs, managing to get most of the way up by the time the men converge.

“What the hell?”

“Rat?”

There’s a smack and a hissed, “Don’t be stupid.”

Bruce inches up the stairs the rest of the way-

-and the door opens.

It’s not Crane, it’s Richardson, and she’s got a pipe in her hand and a gas mask on her face. This might be more complicated than previously expected.

“What’s going on?”

“Boxes fell over.”

“Spread out and make sure that’s all.” This…this is not how this was supposed to go. _“Now.”_

Oh, well. He’s at the top of the stairs now-oh, good, his path to the door is clear.

He draws his grappler from his bag, adjusts his grip, and chucks it towards a rafter. It latches on with a soft **clink!** and he freezes. Nobody comes. He gives it a tug, and it holds.

Okay.

He climbs up onto the railing, and jumps. Then he’s flying.

**SCHWING!**

And now falling.

Bruce hits the ground and rolls to his feet, severed rope in his hands.

**_“Well, well. Look at you!”_ **

Oh, dear.

Crane-dressed in ragged burlap and holding a scythe that’s taller than he is-cocks his head in an exaggerated manner.

 ** _“Little early for trick-or-treating,”_** he says, as his men gather around them, **_“but I think we’ve got something to hand out early!”_**

Bruce flips backwards and is off and running just as Crane throws his hand up with a faint _hiss!_

_Don’t breathe in don’t breathe in_

“Oh, now, leaving so soon?” Richardson appears in front of him. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”

She swings the pipe at him and he jumps back-

-only for the pipe to strike one of the canisters.

And snap off the release.

He has time to think _oh no_ before a white cloud erupts from it, engulfing them both.

“He’s here!”

No he’s not.

There’s another **clank!** and another cloud fills the room. He can’t see. He can’t see and he needs to get to higher ground and fresher air.

Crane’s shadow appears in the fog, scythe dragging along the wall with an ear-grinding **scraaaaape!**

 ** _“There you are.”_** Bruce coughs. His vision is blurring, badly, and he needs to _get out_. **_“A tisket, a tasket, you’re off to Hell in a handbasket!”_**

There’s a fluttering and the ground beneath Crane splits, spitting out a cloud of… _things._

**SKREESKREESKREE!**

Wings bat furiously against his cheek and something tangles in his hair. He jerks back, shaking his head frantically to try and dislodge it, and trips. His tailbone strikes the floor and he claws at his hair.

_Gotta go gotta get out of here what are these things_

**SKREESKREESKREE!**

Whatever’s in his hair tears free and crawls down his face, small claws digging into his skin and leathery wings brushing against his eyes. Get off get off GET OFF-

 ** _“What do you see?”_** The Scarecrow looms over him. Bats-hundreds and hundreds of bats-are crawling out of him, out of his sleeves and his mouth. **_“Tell me.”_**

Bruce claws at the bat on his face, tears it free, and scrambles to his feet. It’s not…it’s not real. It’s not. It’s just a drug.

His face stings and he scrubs at it, backs away. The Scarecrow comes closer, bats crunching under his feet.

**SKREESKREESKREE!**

**_“What scares you?”_ **

Bruce runs.

The Scarecrow laughs, harsh caws blending with the shrieks of the bats and the screams of the men caught in the gas cloud. Where’s the door, he can’t be far…

He stumbles over a prone body but manages to keep his feet. Can’t be far, have to get out, have to call Alfred.

 ** _“Aww, don’t leave!”_** Scarecrow’s voice is nowhere and everywhere. **_“We have so much to talk about!”_**

THERE!

He bursts into the cold night and jumps for the (blurry, so blurry) fire escape ladder. His fingers brush a rung and he clings, hauls himself up.

The platform feels like ice but he lays flat, arms over his head. Scarecrow does not follow, but his heart’s pounding and he can still…still _feel_ things crawling over him.

He dials Alfred.

“Master Bruce, where the bloody hell have you been-”

**SKREESKREESKREE!**

“Alfred…p-p-pickup.”

“Where are you?”

A bat swoops for his face and he has to drop the phone to fend it off. The phone skitters to the ground. Alfred’ll find him. He always finds him.

**SKREESKREESKREE!**

_Please hurry. Please._

THE END


	2. Scopophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of being stared at’. Or, what happens when the Sleep Paralysis Lady makes herself comfy on the rug by my head and makes the death-rattle noise. Written at like three AM as a result. Recommended listening: Mudvayne’s ‘Trapped in the Wake of a Dream’.

Layla Schnoke sighs. It’s been a while since she’s worked nights, and she’d forgotten the pain in the ass that came with ‘sleeping’ after. And she’s gotta sleep-nobody in their right mind trusts the Gotham school bus routes (too many crazies) and Max has to be at school a little early anyway. Something about helping the librarian, she can’t quite remember. (It’s been a few too many long nights…)

She’s just thinking she could sleep, maybe, when her door creaks a little bit and Max whispers, “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Someone’s outside my window.”

“Sweetheart, we’re four stories up-”

“I saw him.”

She doubts it. Max has been having nightmares for weeks now-runs in the family-but…but. It’s Gotham.

Eh.

She gets up anyway and says, “Come on, let’s go see.”

“Nah-uh. He was there.”

“What did he look like?”

He shrugs and yup, nightmare. Nothing to worry about.

She looks out the window. Nada. Not even Batman. (Like she’d see _him_.) Max gets back under the covers, sulking a little, and grumbles, “I saw him.”

“Just a dream, sweetheart.” she says, and then the front door shuts.

Layla can’t breathe. She looks at the window- _at her reflection in the window._

_God, no._

“Mom?” Max whispers.

“Sh. Stay. Stay here, don’t make a sound.”

She grabs his baseball bat and pokes her head out. The apartment is silent, now, and she inches out towards her room to get her phone. Her bare toes hit something crunchy and she looks down.

Straw.

There’s one explanation for how that got there.

There’s more straw, forming a trail that leads towards the front door. The pathway to her bedroom is clear, though, and she sprints faster than Usain Bolt and hurdles over her bed, fingers grasping for her phone. It’s still there and she’s frantically dialing 911 before she can even think.

“911, what’s your emergency.”

Gulping now, still feeling scratchy straw against her toes, it takes her a second to remember how to breathe.

“I-I need police, I think-t-the Scarecrow, _he’s inside,_ please-”

“What’s your address.” She rattles it off. “Ma’am-Ma’am. Breathe. Do you have a weapon?”

“A baseball bat.”

“Hold onto it, lock yourself in the bathroom, a car is en route.”

She hangs up and goes back for Max. He’s under his bed now, lips chewed raw, and she drags him into the bathroom and checks the shower. It’s empty. She shoves the laundry hamper against the door and makes a line of socks to hide the light (she can’t sit in the dark, she can’t, she _can’t_ ).

“Mom?”

“Shh.” She pulls him into her arms. “Shh, shh, it’s gonna be okay.”

One of the socks moves and she snaps her jaw shut. A piece of cardstock shoves the sock partly out of the way. She can see Crane’s spikey handwriting.

_-talk soon, Doctor-_

She muffles a cry in Max’s hair and squeezes her eyes shut. All is silent outside and when the police finally arrive, they report the apartment’s empty.

THE END

 

 


	3. Coulrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, you know this one by now, right? Fear of clowns. Gotham’s number one most common phobia. You can see why. IT has been banned from theatres there due to the double risk of Joker and Scarecrow becoming inspired.
> 
> Jason’s Tragic Backstory ™ comes from the Arkhamverse. It hurt. (This would be more accurately titled ‘Jokerphobia’, but oh, well.)

“-much longer?”

“If those idiots accidentally put him into a coma, they’re going to take his place.”

“Wait, wait-little bird? Are you awake over there?”

Ow.

Head.

Also, shoulders. What the fuck…?

Oh.

Jason Todd has spent more time than the average citizen being tied up in, at risk of being dramatic, ‘the clutches of Gotham’s dastardly denizens’. He knows the signs. And this time, whichever assholes are responsible have hung him from what’s probably a meat hook, because this is Gotham and those are everywhere.

He tries to forget what happened last time he was hanging from a hook and focuses instead on getting down. Or at least figuring out who he’s pissed off this time.

“Imbeciles.” Oh. Question answered. This…this is not good. “Where are they-”

“Hang on.”

This is not good at all. His best bet for the moment is to feign unconsciousness.

That plan goes out the window when Richardson smashes what feels like a crowbar into his ribcage, making him jerk and try to move away.

“There. He’s up.”

Crane sighs and rubs his forehead.

“Kitty, please don’t break him.”

“He’s fine.” She grins up at him and he doubts he’s been magically forgiven for all those times he’s made fun of her height. Worth it. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’d forgotten how annoying this one was…” Crane sounds exhausted. Jason’s glad to know his presence can cause such exasperation. It’s the little things in life… “You seem to be little the worse for wear.”

“Did…did you miss the fact that I’m hanging from a meat hook? Maybe you need new glasses, doc.”

“Still the same mouthy little brat, I see. I would have thought the clown beat that out of you.”

Jason has nothing to say to that. Better to turn his energy to testing the…Jesus, okay, zip-ties and chains…on his wrists.

Yeah, getting down is going to be a bit of a bitch.

“So that’s how you shut him up.” Crane observes, and if he’d just take a few steps closer Jason could probably kick him. It would hurt, and his shoulders wouldn’t be happy, but he could still do it. “Fascinating.”

Richardson snorts and leans over to prod him with-yup, that’s a crowbar. He’s sure that’s on purpose.

“I don’t like having to crane my neck.” she grumbles. “Could’ve we have gotten a wheelchair?”

Crane grins at that.

“Kitty, you have to crane your neck at everyone. This isn’t anything new. Besides, I don’t want him cracking his head on the concrete.”

Oh.

That…that doesn’t bode well.

“Batman has a new Robin if you’re looking for bait.” he says, trying to keep his voice light. Crane cocks his head, eyes glittering behind his glasses.

“I never said anything about that Bat, child.” He takes a few steps forward, stopping just out of kicking range. “No, no, this is entirely about you, and your propensity for disrupting my operations.”

What? When was this?

“You’ve got me confused for someone else-”

 ** _“Shh.”_** He leans over, rests the tip of a needle-finger against Jason’s lips. Jason tries not to move-he can see the liquid, bright yellow, moving a little in the syringe. “How many of my shipments do you need to destroy? It makes things…difficult.”

Huh?

Jason’s not above making Crane’s life difficult, but he hasn’t done anything. Not on purpose, anyway. Maybe there’s been collateral damage?

Crane withdraws the needle and straightens up.

“Any distress this causes Batman is, of course, an added bonus.”

Distress, Jason’s fine ass. That bridge has been salted and burned.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“And your manners are still nonexistent. Pity.”

Then the lights go off.

For a second or two, some dead-and-buried scrap of Robin surfaces with a, **HE’S HERE!** , but then something that feels like a big insect brushes against his neck. He jerks, tries to get leverage to lash out, and his head’s jerked to the side just enough for a syringe to plunge into his jugular.

He can feel the shit clawing into his bloodstream, thick and acidic. Breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, everything’s gonna be fine-

**_“Don’t fight it, little bird.”_ **

“Don’t call me that, you sick son of a-”

Scarecrow cackles, high and grating, and the sound bounces off the walls to form a chorus.

 ** _“Oh, but that’s all you ever will be, isn’t it?”_** Yellow eyes come closer. **_“It’s all right, you may as well come to terms. Denial is never healthy.”_**

The temperature dips and Jason twists his hands, clutches at the chain binding them. The chain is real.

_“Everything’s real, Todders. Didn’t you read the last Harry Potter?”_

No. No, no, he’s not here, he’s. Not. Here.

He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth and grips the chain until his knuckles hurt. Breathe. Breathe, the chain is real, Joker isn’t, s’just…s’just Crane’s toxin, it’s not real-

 ** _“Although…”_** Scarecrow’s real, much as Jason might wish otherwise. He’s behind him, maybe? **_“Perhaps not…he usually comes for his birds, doesn’t he?”_**

Jason pulls his lips between his teeth. Don’t make a sound, s-s’like an animal, Crane’ll get bored eventually…

Cold iron nudges under his chin and eases his head up.

“Don’t be shy.” Richardson’s voice is dripping with false pity and he jerks his head away, scraping his neck on the crowbar’s tips. “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetheart.”

**_Shuuu. Shuuu._ **

Jason knows that noise-it’s someone dragging themselves across gritty tiles. He squeezes his eyes shut. Easier to keep reminding himself that none of this is real. The chain is real. The pain in his shoulders is real. F-focus on the pain.

Grasping fingers

_“TAKE OUT YOUR EYES AND MAIL ‘EM TO BATSY IN A JAR! WOULDN’T THAT BE FUNNY?”_

grip his legs and whomever they belong to uses him as a lever to get themselves up, the added weight sending waves of pain rippling through his shoulders.

 ** _“The last one I had wasn’t here for five minutes.”_** Scarecrow’s hissing. **_“But you…what was it, four months before he got a new one?”_**

“Shut up.” **Shit, rookie mistake…c’mon,** **you’re better than this…**

Scarecrow laughs again and brushes his needles against Jason’s cheek. Hands grip his shoulders and he can **feel** familiar yellow teeth by his ear.

_“He’s right, Todders. That’s why I’m here, to take you home!”_

N-no, no, Crane hates the clown, he wouldn’t call him, he wouldn’t, he’s not here, he’s not real-

The crowbar smacks into his ribs again, cracking one and sending him swinging against the

**NOT REAL NOT REAL FOR FUCK’S SAKE**

Joker. He hasn’t even gotten his breath back before Richardson lines up another swing, this one taking his legs out from under him and leaving his shoulders to support him. Joker throws his arms around his shoulders and hangs on, head against Jason’s neck.

**He’s not here he’s not he’s not**

_“You were a bad boy, running away like that. I’ve been worried SICK!”_

The Joker’s fingers clench his jaw and he shakes his head to try and dislodge them. They only dig in deeper.

**_“What do you see, hm? What keeps you up at night?”_ **

“Please…” He doesn’t mean to, it’s never gotten him anywhere anyway, but…he doesn’t want…he can’t, not again, not this…

The crowbar scuffs at the ground and there’s a soft **spt!** from somewhere in front of him. He flinches back because he **knows that sound please not again**.

**_“I see why he didn’t bother. You’re nothing but a squalling brat.”_ **

The Joker cackles, breath hot against his ear and fingers poking into his mouth, getting a better grip no no please no get off **get off** -

**Dad please I’ll be better I promise just please come get me**

There’s a flurry of pain-back, ribs, kneecaps, elbows-and by the time Richardson backs off he can’t even try to support his weight, not like this, not with the clown hanging off him.

**_“Look at me.”_ **

**No no eyes shut EYES SHUT**

It’s not the Joker’s fingers that grip his jaw, it’s Scarecrow’s, cold and riddled with small scars.

**_“Look. At. Me.”_ **

His eyes open without permission. Yellow searchlights gaze back and what little he can see of Scarecrow’s face grins widely, stitches stretching.

 ** _“You see him, don’t you?”_** Something’s glowing on the other side of the room. **_“Answer me!”_**

He spits out a mouthful of blood instead. The glowing thing moves closer.

“Screw you.” he says, or tries to say. He regrets it a second later when Richardson hits him hard enough to break his elbow. Everything whites out and he tries to grasp the chains, to get the weight off, but his hands aren’t doing their goddamn job.

 ** _“It’s all right to be afraid.”_** Scarecrow whispers. **_“You should be.”_**

Yellow eyes and the glowing thing come back into hazy focus. The weight of the clown has left him but he’s trembling, soaked in sweat. ‘Least before he could…could see him, most’a the time…but now…

He drops, chains rattling to the ground beside his still-bound hands. He should get up, get outta here, but his legs refuse to do anything but twitch. Scarecrow looms over him and he tries to draw back with a choked, “Get away…”

 ** _“Shh.”_** Behind him, the glowing thing reveals itself to be in **his** hand. **_“Everything’s going to be all right now.”_**

Glowing thing’s a branding iron not again he doesn’t want this no more no more **please Bruce where are you?**

**CRA-ASH!**

The Joker vanishes like smoke and Scarecrow whirls. The shadows join together as one.

 _“He’s not here for you, Todders!”_ The Joker’s lying on the floor with him, hands caressing his face. _“Say bye-bye to Daddy!”_

**“Crane-”**

**Blam!**

Pain. Sudden, searing agony that makes the Joker fall over laughing, limbs flailing like a dying bug’s. Hot blood splashes across his lips when he tries to beg Bruce not to leave him.

“Might want to do something.” Richardson warns from somewhere over his head. “Sounds like I hit something important.”

The Joker throws purple hands over his eyes, fingers pressing around the sockets, and screams, _“SAY NIGHTY-NIGHT, KID!”_

Then there’s nothing.

THE END


	4. Entomophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has canon roots-in Year One (my Scarecrow bible), he does try to murder his father, who fears insects. Batman interrupts. Seeing as this is Doctor Crane, who crosses state lines to track down people to murder, I doubt that was the end of it.

Clearly, Jonathan thinks, he did not get his brains from his father. The man is still in Gotham. Oh, Jonathan’s certain that if asked, he’ll say something about ‘not being chased out’, but the only explanation is blind stupidity.

That’s fine. Less effort on his part.

He’ll give the man a little credit. He locks his doors and windows. Not that it matters. This is Gotham, a Life Skill is lock picking. He’s pretty sure they teach it in first grade.

Gerald’s apartment is not interesting. It’s stark, with several phone chargers heaped in a plastic box on the table, blueprints stacked neatly nearby, and an empty frozen dinner box on the counter.

Jonathan is not impressed.

“Well, I can see where you get your cooking skills from.” Kitty says from the kitchen. “I always wondered.”

“Thanks so much, Kitty.”

She blows him a kiss and clambers onto the counter.

“This cupboard is ninety percent coffee mugs.” she informs him. “He’s certainly your father. I was beginning to wonder.”

He ignores that one and wanders into the other room. Television. Handful of war fiction novels (ugh). Pile of magazines that he has no desire to touch. Bed.

Karen (oh, that’s not over either, he’ll track her down soon enough and **_make her sorry_** ) clearly has terrible taste.

No matter. This black mark on his family tree will soon be gone. Then there’s just the last two and this will all be behind him.

He returns to the main room and picks up the backpack he brought with him. Inside is a small stack of boxes containing various types of insects-small brown beetles, a few moths, a handful of crickets, two giant water bugs (and oh, those were a nightmare-heh-to get here, but worth it) and a tarantula hawk.

Gerald, as far as he knows, should be back soon. Another hour, perhaps, if he keeps to this last week’s schedule. Not that it really matters-they’re here now, they can wait.

He brings the backpack over to the couch and sets it within easy reach before sitting down. Kitty curls against him, one eye on the pack. Soft scritching noises can be heard now and then.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t want to touch them, that’s all.”

“Fair enough.”

He’s glad she’s going to stay here. Call it sentiment, whatever.

**_Sap._ **

_Family reunions are hard for me, Scarecrow._

**_Whatever. Hey, does he have food? I’m hungry._ **

_Too bad._

**_YOU FORGOT TO BRING SNACKS, DIDN’T YOU._ **

_I deliberately did not bring snacks._

**_YOU MONSTER._ **

He ignores Scarecrow and turns his attention to the door. Tick-tock, tick-tock…

* * *

Gerald is half an hour late, but he does eventually come shuffling in, cracking his neck and grumbling about idiot drivers. Should’ve taken the train…

“Hello, Gerald.”

“JESUS-no. No, no-”

“Yes.” Ah, that expression of utter horror. It’s a special one that can only be made by those who came home to what was supposed to be an empty house. He loves it. “Sit down, please.”

“Like hell.” Well, well. He’s got a gun. What a deterrent. Truly. “Get out.”

“Is that any way to talk to your own child?” If there’s some bitterness in his voice, well, he can’t help that. “Really, I hope you don’t have any more running around…now. **_Sit. Down._** ”

The hand holding the gun is shaking. Really, if you’re going to have one, you may as well be confident in your abilities.

“You’re not my child.”

“Oh, I wish that were true. Come now, Gerald. Sit. I insist. Unless you want another sample of my work…did you know that my last three subjects killed themselves rather than face their fears?” He adjusts his sleeve around the mechanism there. “One flung herself out of a twelve-story window. Ended up impaled on the fence below. Tragic.”

“What do you want?” He’s not sitting, but the gun is going down. Wise decision. Nervous trigger fingers are dangerous trigger fingers.

Jonathan smiles at him. He’s well aware that it’s not a nice smile.

“We didn’t really talk last time, did we? That’s all. Just to talk. To straighten some things out.” Gerald sits. Well, well, look at that, he’s not completely brain-dead. “Thank you. Now. The gun, please. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

He doesn’t hand it over, but he does put it down. It will do for now.

Kitty straightens up and he doesn’t have to look to know she’s drawn her own gun out of her coat. It’s always nice to have that extra insurance.

“This is for your own good, Father.” he says, straightening his glasses and leaning forward. “I’m a doctor. Did you know that? I doubt it, God knows you did your best to pretend you didn’t have a son, but I _have_ been in the news a bit.”

“What do you want?” Just like all the others-repeat the same question in hopes of getting a better answer. Human nature, he supposes-haven’t they all lowered their standards before returning to the fridge?

He sighs and lowers his head, reaches for the backpack.

“As I said earlier, just to talk. Think of it as a free therapy session. You were so…upset…the last time we saw each other. I was concerned.” Ah! Here they are, brown beetles. Perfect to start with. Harmless. “And, of course, I wanted to ask if you’d developed a fear of heights after that last meeting.”

“Go to Hell.”

**_I’LL SEND HIM THERE._ **

_WAIT._

“I’ve been, thank you.”

He draws the box from the backpack and sets it gently on his lap, drums his fingers against the sides to get them moving. Gerald, predictably, flinches and draws back into the chair. Jonathan chuckles and fiddles with the clasp on the lid.

“How far back does this particular phobia go, hm? Did you wake up with walking stick halfway down your ear? Fall onto an anthill? Tell me. Confession, I understand, is good for the soul.”

“You sick bastard-”

“You’re not wrong. But we’ve had this discussion. **_Answer my question._** ”

Gerald’s sweating a bit now, hands flexing against the arms of the chair. Such a sudden, _strong_ reaction…trauma, then. Well, well.

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh, I think you do.” He stands up, box cradled in his hands, and crosses the distance between them. The gun is gently nudged aside and he circles the chair, stops just behind the man (optimum position for inducing feelings of powerlessness). “And you’re going to remember, or I’ll drag it out of you by **_force_**.”

He rattles the box and one of the beetles flicks its wings out, flies against the plastic with a hearty **WHAP!**

Gerald bolts, or tries to. He’s barely out of the chair when Kitty raises the gun.

“Sit. Down.”

Fear of imminent death trumps fear of insects, apparently, because Gerald goes back down, legs shaking and head craned to stare at the box in Jonathan’s hands.

“Thank you, Kitty…now. Think, if you can. Answer me, and this will hurt much less. Keep resisting, and I’ll shove these down your throat.”

“What happened to you?” Ah, an attempt to distract him, or perhaps appeal to his humanity. Pity he’s not here to find a _father he never had_. “Jonathan-”

Pathetic.

He plunks the box on Gerald’s lap, ignoring the sudden whine, and grips his neck, aims his other hand at his face. The man can see the mechanism, he’s sure. He’s also sure he knows what it is.

“Don’t. Call me. That.”

“Please-”

“Go ahead. Plead. That _never_ worked for me.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea you even-”

Enough.

He moves his hand, hears the soft _click_ of activation. This is an older batch, one he’s long grown immune to, but the average civilian should suffer as per usual.*

Gerald, unsurprisingly, is average. The cloud has barely enveloped his face before his eyes widen and his throat tenses beneath Jonathan’s hand. He jerks, trying to dislodge the box, and Scarecrow digs his nails into his skin.

**_“Come on, then. Scream. Scream!”_ **

Gerald bucks again, sending the box to the floor. The lid pops free and the beetles scatter. Several of them skitter up the man’s pants, provoking a bout of screaming and flailing. Scarecrow dodges a leg and leans down catches one would-be escapee, and drops it down his shirt.

The results are sudden and violent-Gerald’s hands fly up, clawing at his shirt, and Scarecrow steps back in a hurry, crosses to the backpack. Now, now, where is that-ah! Tarantula hawk. Go big or go home, that’s his motto. Well, one of ‘em. He’d get that one cross-stitched if Jonny wouldn’t pitch a fit.

Gerald’s jerking now, clawing at himself. The beetle skitters across his face and flits off, but not before he drags his nails down his cheeks, peeling strips of skin off with them.

**_Heh, looks like zoodles. But, uh, skin. Skoodles._ **

_…I’ll never be able to eat those again._

**_So._ **

_They were fine._

**_HIPSTERRRRRRR._ **

“GOD! GOD GET THEM OFF GET THEM OFF!”

The screaming upsets the tarantula hawk, sets it buzzing furiously against the sides of the container. He’s not lettin’ that one out-got stung once already-but the **blipblipblip** noise draws Gerald’s eye just fine.

“NO! NO! GET IT AWAY FROM ME!”

 ** _“Aww, it wants to say hi!”_** He rattles the box teasingly. **_“Go on, now, say hello!”_**

Gerald does not say hello. Gerald shrieks and swats at the box. Scarecrow yanks it away and wags a finger.

**_“Ah, ah, ah! You didn’t say the magic word!”_ **

_Great, that’ll be in my head for a year now._

“PLEASE NO!”

Eh. Scarecrow’ll take what he can get-

“Scarecrow.” WHAT. “Coppers.”

_Figures he’d have the one concerned neighbor in town. Move. I’ll finish up._

But, but…

Jonathan sighs, tightens his grip on the box, and leans over the still-thrashing Gerald. Sure enough, there’s sirens in the distance, getting closer. Shame.

“Our time is up.” he says, flicking at a beetle that’s landed on his sleeve. “Shame…ah, well.”

“PLEASE GOD-”

He makes a show of looking around the room before setting the wasp’s box down and pulling the other containers from the backpack.

“I suppose he’s on the other line…pity. For you.”

Moths first-they flutter straight into the lamp. Typical. The crickets follow, and the water bugs…don’t really do anything. He settles for actively picking them up and placing them ever so gently on Gerald’s face.

This proves to be the catalyst-the screams stop abruptly. So does the twitching.

“Is he dead?” Kitty lowers the gun. The sirens are almost here-they’ll have to take the fire escape. Jonathan crouches down and picks up the nearest wrist.

“Mm-hm.” He drops it, watches it bounce on the cheap carpet. “Good riddance.”

Now that the screams have stopped, the apartment is eerily silent. His ears are ringing a little.

But it’s over.

THE END

 

*Also canon! Kinda. He’s not wearing his mask when he poisons Gerald in the original comic, though whether he’s immune or the cloud is too small or what is unmentioned. (Doesn’t seem to be a gas mask in that thing, so…)


	5. Atychiphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of failure’. Gotham-verse-sort of, picks up after ‘Responsible’ (Phobias), because I. Am. BITTER. Never forget. Never forgive. Electroconvulsive therapy, by the way, is supposed to be helpful, or at least not harmful, but this is Arkham, so they probably suck at it. You know their Yelp page is awful…oh, well. Sucks to be Reed. Sucks to be Jim, too, but if he’d just STEP ASIDE…I choose to believe the hallucination with Lee is a form of this phobia-failure to save her from her breakdown last season, perhaps?

Jim has seen things today.

They got a call from Arkham-he’s really, really starting to despise Arkham-reporting that the warden was missing. They were almost there when they got another call reporting that they’d found him, but that it…wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t. The man had been in one of the locked-off areas of the asylum, huddled under a gurney and…well…his eyes. He didn’t have them anymore.

Their first thought, morbid as it was, was that he’d clawed them out-he was muttering and rocking back and forth, hands cupped over the sockets. But his fingers had come up clean. Jim suspects one of two parties-the gang who took Jonathan Crane-tests came up for that toxin of his-or Crane himself, off the deep end. He’s guessing gang, trying to shut him up. Maybe there was attempted blackmail.

They’ll find out soon enough, hopefully. Reed’s had the antidote and such surgery as he can have right now. Jim’s set up shop in his hospital room in case someone comes back to finish the job. Harvey thinks good riddance if they do, but he did say to call if shit goes down, which is…a big deal…right now.

It’s late, now, well past midnight, and this section of the hospital is quiet. Reed is still out and Jim’s sort of asleep-well, drifting a bit-when there’s a sudden, “Well, _fuck!_ ” from the doorway.

HE’S UP HE’S UP-

Oh.

This is awkward. Kitty Richardson never did forgive him (he guesses he can’t blame her) for what happened.

“Hi.”

“S’that Reed? From the asylum?”

“You know him?”

“Sorry bastard…yeah. Yeah, I do. Havin’ a rough night, huh?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Cousin had her appendix out, I’m staying for blackmail. What happened to him?”

“We’re not sure.” Something feels wrong. Could be paranoia, but… “It’s, uh, good to see you.”

She slouches against the door frame, eyes locked on Reed’s bed. He straightens up. She doesn’t strike him as a murderer, but…neither did that one therapist. And Oswald struck him as harmless, too, and look at him now.

Look at him now.

“Can’t say I’m very sorry.” she says, lips curled up in a bitter smile. “Oh, well…Gordon’s here.”

That’s directed into the hall and Jim has enough time to think, _well, shit_ before a shadow stretches across the hall, followed by its owner.

Jonathan Crane does not look well-he’s taller and skinnier than Jim last saw him, and the dark shadows under his eyes make his face look more like a skull. He’s drowning in loose jeans and an even looser sweater, and even his gloves aren’t as fitted as they should be. Kitty shifts her slouch from the doorframe to him with a smug, “Reed’s still out, though.”

“Good.” Jonathan smiles, a bitter, brittle thing, and lets his head fall a bit too far to the side. “How are you, Mister Gordon?”

“Fine, thanks.” This needs to be handled with _extreme_ care. “Jonathan-”

He holds up a hand.

“Don’t. I know what you’re doing, it’s not going to work.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“No? You weren’t going to try and placate me? Try that good old, ‘everything’ll be fine now, don’t overreact’?” Jim stays silent and still. “I thought so.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, Kitty and Scarecrow had their fun with him, I wanted to see how he was doing. And maybe take him home with me for later.” Kitty did this? And Scarecrow? Please, don’t let there be a third one… “But you’re in my way.”

“Who’s Scarecrow.”

Surely a nurse will walk by…

Jonathan’s eyes harden and Jim thinks that if looks could kill, Reed would be drawn and quartered.

“Never mind about Scarecrow. You can either do the right thing-for once-and let us take him off your hands, or we’ll take him from you.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? He did it to me, it’s only fair.”

Keep him talking, keep him talking, at least until he can reach his phone.

“Jonathan, listen to me, whatever he did to you, he _will_ be punished, but-”

“Do you know what shock therapy is, Jim?” His voice is light, curious. “They strap you down, stick some wires to your head, and send a few hundred volts through you. Not very fun. Or very helpful. Especially when they only do it to shut you up.”

“And he’ll face just-”

“You know he never stayed in the room with me? Always went into an observation chamber. Thick glass. He never wanted to listen to the screaming.” Kitty squirms against his side, arms wrapped around him to bury in the pockets of his sweater. “Tell me, Mister Gordon, what would he get for that? A fine? A year or two on probation?”

Probably, but that’s not a good answer.

“You could testify.” he says gently. “Get him a long sentence. But he has to stay in police custody.”

“Like hell.” Kitty snaps. “You had your shot. Hand him over now, and maybe you’ll get him back without any more missing pieces.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Melon baller.” She leans her head against Jonathan’s ribs. “I wanted to force-feed him his intestines, but I thought he might die, so…got his eyeballs in him, though!” She tilts her head up. “Think they’re digested yet?”

“I don’t know.” Jonathan sounds more amused than anything. Jim wants to hurl. “You look green, Mister Gordon. Maybe you should step out for some water.”

His fingers brush against the smooth plastic of his phone and he starts inching it out of his pocket. If he keeps his hands in his lap, the bed might shield them-and the phone-from view.

“I can’t.”

“Well, I offered. You heard me, Kitty, if he complains later, I offered.”

“You did. As a…very unbiased witness…I will testify to that.”

They find this funny. Jim does not. Doesn’t matter-he’s got his phone out and open. Okay…Harvey’s number is…

Thank God it’s on vibrate.

“Mister Reed?” Jonathan raps on the doorframe, pitches his voice a little louder. “Wakey-wakey, Warden!”

Text sent. Please, Harvey, speed. Channel that great-aunt you’re always talking about, Lead Foot Aggie.

Reed stirs a little and Jonathan straightens up a bit. Jim can’t see a gun on him, but with that damned sweater…and Kitty’s got a purse. Purses are dangerous things. He’ll have to presume they’ve got some sort of weapon until he can prove otherwise.

Kitty peels herself off Jonathan and tilts back to look into the hallway. Reed moves his head and Jim slides his hand towards his holster.

“Warden Reed! Wake up. **_Now._** ”

Jim shudders at the harsh growl the boy’s voice has taken on. Reed starts up-well, as much as he can-head twisting desperately.

“No, no-”

“We’re going for a drive, Warden.”

“J-Jonathan…”

“That’s right. Just sit tight for a minute, hm?”

Not today.

Jim stands up and Reed silences. Jonathan raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.

“I can’t let you do this.”

“You don’t have to let me.”

Then he’s moving, throwing his hand up towards Jim’s face. There’s a faint _click_ inside the sleeve and a puff of white, bitter smoke billows out.

_SHIT-!_

It’s too late. It’s in his lungs, burning and coating them and he can’t breathe-

Dad’s in the bed. Some faint voice screams that’s not possible but he _sees_ him, lying there all hooked up to machines and he _can’t let them take him_.

He grabs the chair and jabs towards the shadowy skeleton that’s now in the room.

“Get back!”

**_“Step aside.”_ **

“No! Get back! You can’t have him!” Dad groans and Jim flails the chair, narrowly missing a boney arm. “Get out!”

Another skeleton comes in, teeth gleaming in the dim lights. The tall one moves closer, bones rubbing together with a dry _shk-shk, shk-shk._ Too bad. They’re not taking him. He can protect him, he has to, Dad would do it for him.

 ** _“What do you see, Mister Gordon?”_** the tall skeleton rasps. **_“Share with the group, hm?”_**

He swings the chair again and the skeleton grabs it, yanks it out of his fingers. No! No, no, there’s something, he has something else, he can feel it in the back of his head-

He lunges for the chair. The skeleton steps back and smashes it against his head, sending him stumbling to his knees.

**_“Ah, ah, ah!”_ **

No…no, Dad…

The machine screams as the skeletons haul Dad off the bed. He grasps for the nearest set of knees and misses, gets kicked onto his back for his trouble.

**_“Next time, Mister Gordon!”_ **

And then they’re gone, Dad with them.

THE END


	6. Anatidaephobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: ‘Feed The Birds’ (tuppence a bag...). ‘Fear of waterfowl’. They’re in college here, hence the ‘sun is out and so are we’.
> 
> Geese are *mean*. Gotham, which takes ‘unfriendly wildlife’ to unfair levels, has Satan’s Geese. Nobody fucks with them. Batman includes them in his ‘never ever approach’ slideshows for the Robins. (Jason approached them anyway. Pictures of the incident were included for Tim.)

"Done with your sandwich?"

"Yes, why?"

She pointed to the pond, where a handful of ducks were resting.

"Ducks."

"Uh-huh."

"You've never fed the ducks?"

"Kitty, if something can be labeled 'happy childhood moment', the answer is no. I have not."

"God, you're deprived..." She kissed his cheek and laughed at him when he blushed. "You get the crust, and you crumble it up, and you toss it in the water."

"Why."

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because it's what's done, that's why."

"Sounds pointless."

"It's soothing."

He shrugged and returned to his book, ignoring the quacking from the pond. He lost track of time, actually, lulled into a trance by the rare Gotham sunshine and the words of Collins*.

At least, until Kitty tugged on his sleeve.

"We need to go."

"Why?"

"I'm out of crust."

"So?"

_"Geese."_

Oh.

Oh, god. He hadn't realized there were geese in Gotham. It just hadn't occurred to him, really.

He raised his eyes from his book and looked at the pond. The ducks had vacated the area, and in their place sat three geese. The middle one honked and the other two came forward. The sight was comical, in a horrible way. A regular goose mafia.

Of course Gotham would have a goose mafia…

“Is this a happy childhood moment?”

“You’re not funny.”

“It’s an honest question.”

**Honk!**

“No. This is a traumatizing childhood moment.”

Oh.

There were children skipping a few feet away. If they ran now, perhaps the geese would take them instead.

“Well?”

“If we stay very still and don’t make eye contact, they might leave.”

He closed his book, quietly and deliberately, and stood up. The geese hissed. One of them flapped angrily.

The children stopped skipping. Now or never.

“How guilty do you feel about throwing them under the bus?”

“No one ever has to know.”

_Never leave me._

She suddenly grabbed his hand and sprinted across the grass. There was a flurry of honking and hissing and splashing, followed by the sounds of children screaming.

Oh, well. It was never too early to learn that A) life was unfair and B) when you saw geese, you fled.

THE END

*Wilkie Collins, author of what is considered to be the first English detective novel. Owner of an impressively horrendous beard.


	7. Babushkaphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of grandmothers’. Now, to be fair, Dr. Crane is not going to freak out at some random gramamma in the street, but it’s not like there’s a name for ‘fear of Granny’. (Grannyphobia, I guess, but…no.) Recommended listening: Delta Rae’s ‘I Will Never Die’.

Jonathan wakes with a raging headache and what feels like a sprained wrist. What…he’d been working, hadn’t he?

He is on the floor. Right, then. He’ll just…piece things together.

The pain and his location point to a fall. The chair, tipped over as it is, points to a trip. That chair is going in the dumpster at the earlier opportunity. It had one job. Tripping him was not that. (Never mind that he’s pretty sure _dinner_ was six cups of coffee…this is the chair’s fault.)

He twists his head towards the throbbing wrist. It’s swollen-sprain confirmed. Kitty’s not going to be happy…he can hear the _I TOLD YOU SO_ already.

Okay. Time to get off the floor. Maybe if he gets some ice on it, she’ll never know.

Standing makes the room spin and his stomach do backflips (more acrobatic than he is, how’s that work?), and he ends up staggering to his work table and clutching for it before he goes back down. Concussion? Must’ve been some fall…

At least his glasses survived unscathed. He reaches up to take them off-one of the earpieces is loose again. Damn things…they, too, have one job. Well, two jobs-help him see and don’t break.

He doesn’t think either of those are terribly difficult, but the glasses disagree.

Maybe it’s time to go to bed. If he looks pathetic enough, Kitty might make him tea.

Ugh. There are stairs. There are many, many stairs. He thinks they’ve multiplied. Like rabbits-two enter the bush, a dozen leave it. That’s not fair.

Gotham. It’s not enough that it has human crocodiles, the stairs now have multiplication powers. This city is a disaster and he doesn’t understand how nobody’s bombed them to try and contain the horror.

Eh, they’d probably survive anyway.

He puts his glasses back on, loose earpiece be damned, and shuffles towards the stairs. He ends up veering towards the wall to avoid falling and taking very, very little steps. He doesn’t think he’s been this unsteady since…since…heavens, must be over fifteen years. He has a vague recollection of being deathly ill as a teenager-ill enough for Granny to actively attempt to keep him alive. Supposedly, anyway-he’s still not sure that chicken soup she was forcing down his throat wasn’t poisoned. Somehow. Whatever the case, he remembers feeling horribly dizzy then, too, dizzy and unable to lift his head too quickly.

He slumps against the wall, wishing, a bit, that Kitty would come down here to pester him about sleeping or something. Perhaps they should look into walkie-talkies…

He is now at the stairs. They appear to have doubled yet again.

No matter. He has tangled-unwillingly, perhaps, but still-with bigger and scarier things than a flight of stairs.

At least, that’s his initial thought. When he steps onto them, he changes his mind. They wobble and tremble like a jumpy horse and the movement makes his vision swim. Clutching at the wall is his only hope, and he feels his way-slowly, so, so slowly-towards the top.

The whole lair has changed. The lab used to come out through a door in the hallway. It now comes out in a kitchen that looks very much like the one in his childhood (ha, as if he ever had one!) home.

Scratch that-identical, down to the cracks in the ceiling and the ironing board tucked into the alcove. (He always used to wonder why…funny thing, huh?) What in the world…

“Jonathan.”

He stills, limbs locking and blood rushing to his chest. No. No, no, that’s not possible, she’s _dead_ -

But there she is, looking exactly the same as she always did-spindly limbs and perfect posture, twisted hands folded at her waist.

He steps back, intending to run-or hurl himself, if need be-back downstairs, and she crosses the room much faster than one would think her able, hand grasping for his wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

“Let go of me.”

The hand tightens painfully. He attempts to pull free and she strikes him across the face, sending his glasses skittering across the ancient wood flooring and under the stove.

“What’s gotten into you?” Her nails dig into his skin and she pulls him away from the relative safety of the staircase. “Come along, this is ridiculous.”

“You’re dead.” he insists, old instincts screaming at him to _shut up_ and logic insisting that _she can’t be here_. “You’re dead, this isn’t possible-”

She turns back around, icy eyes narrowing.

“I’m willing to forgive you that, in time.” He remembers that tone, forgiveness is a lie- “Now come along.”

He yanks desperately at his wrist again and this time she whirls, cane aiming for the backs of his knees. He never could dodge it then and he can’t dodge it now and he ends up on his back, frantically trying to crawl away from her. She can’t be here, she can’t be here, this isn’t possible, she’s dead, he killed her-

“No, no, please-”

“You ungrateful brat.” she seethes, feathers falling from her dress as she jabs her cane at his chest. His head’s swimming. “I kept you, against all advice, I fed you, I let you have a roof over your head-”

“I’m sorry-”

Too late, he remembers that only ever made it worse. She seems to grow taller and the room closes in around them.

“How many times do I have to tell you to _speak when spoken to?_ ”

A crow’s head pokes out of her sleeve, followed by the body. It flaps up to the ironing board and caws. She tilts her head and smiles at him in that w _ay_ she had, like a snake.

“It seems you’ve forgotten your lessons since I’ve been away.” she says, pressing her cane against his chest until he stills. “Never mind. We’ll fix that soon enough.”

Another crow squirms out of her sleeve.

“Granny, _please_ -”

**Caw!**

He freezes. Looks up.

And a black whirlwind dives down.

* * *

“-an. Jonathan! Come on, love, you’re all right, just _listen_ to me-Jonathan!”

He jolts back to some semblance of consciousness. No birds. No Granny. Yes lying down. Yes pinned, because Kitty’s practically straddling him, gripping his wrists.

“Kitty.” Can’t breathe…the hell happened? He was…Granny had…

Oh.

Kitty’s grip on his wrists is painfully tight and he wonders how long they’ve been like this.

“Jonathan?” She doesn’t release him. “Are you with me this time?”

“Yes.” He thinks so. “When did…”

She finally lets go of his wrists but makes no move to get up.

“About half an hour ago. You’re sure you’re not going to hurt yourself if I let you up?”

He doubts he can even stand, to be honest.

“Mm-hm.” She gets off him and he looks up at the mercifully crow-free ceiling. “Well, it’s a strong batch, at least.”

He probably deserves the angry poke to the arm.

THE END


	8. Formidophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, our title track-‘fear of scarecrows’.
> 
> Arlen is mostly certain that Jonathan just left town (Granny? Who knows, who cares.) but the house is far enough out of the way that nobody’s really sure.
> 
> Recommended listening: the opening titles of the film The Skeleton Key-gorgeous soundtrack, by the way.

The old Keeney Manor is one place that nobody wants to go after dark.

It’s creepy, it’s big, and nature has taken it. Weeds claw their way through decayed porch slats and wolf spiders lurk under rotting furniture. The crows nesting in the remains of the old chapel are aggressive, prone to attacking any who get too close. One boy lost an eye earlier this year.

The adults have put a ban on poking around out there-it’s dangerous, they say. That’s done exactly nothing to curb the rite of passage consisting of ‘go up to the house, touch it’. Most people sprint for it, slap a board, and come running back. Even so, somebody went through the porch once and had to be rescued. It’s a risk, but not enough of one to deter anyone.

Alex Clearwater moved here two weeks ago. He hasn’t made many friends, but he’s hoping if he does the stupid thing, that’ll change.

But that doesn’t mean he wants to. Could be black widows up there. Or rabid squirrels. Or an axe-wielding serial killer.

“So why are we here again?”

Jenny Mulligan rolls her eyes.

“You gotta go touch the house.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the rule.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Could be haunted.”

“Bull.” Alex swats at a mosquito. “What if the owner comes out?”

Jenny grins, bright and wide.

“There isn’t one. The old lady up and vanished one day, kid too. My maw says it’s a murder-suicide, but my dad swears the birds got ‘em both.”

“Yer dad’s a dramatic fuck.” George scoffs. “She probably died and he took what he could get and got the hell outta Dodge.”

“You shut up about my dad!”

“Just sayin’!”

Alex eyes the house. It’s not that far, really.

“Just touch it, right? I don’t have to like, bring back a splinter or something?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” He stands up. “I’ll touch the stupid house.”

“Watch out for the ghosts!” the other two cackle. Whatever. Ghosts. Bullshit, it’s just an abandoned house. Probably crawling with vermin.

He wades through the weeds towards the house. Grasshoppers scatter and pollen puffs up in yellow clouds. A couple of crows fly by overhead, but other than that, there’s nothing.

He’s not going to run. Even if it does feel like he shouldn’t be here.

**Caw!**

But if those birds attack him, he’s out.

He swats at a mosquito, smearing blood- _his_ blood, that little shit-over his arm. How dare it stain him with his own blood!

Fucking insects.

He’s at the porch now. Just go up the stairs, smack the door, and leave.

Okay.

If he goes through that stair, he’s never gonna forgive them…

**Creak. Creak. Creak.**

Alex swallows. It really feels like he shouldn’t be here. Which is ridiculous, it’s just an old house. He squares his shoulders, lifts his hand, and smacks his palm against the door-

-sending it swinging open.

Well.

Uh.

Shit.

He twists around, but the other two are streaking down the dirt road. They _suck_ , what the hell!

“Is someone here?” His voice is swallowed up in the dark, dusty hallway. “Hello?”

No answer, just the cawing of birds and the sudden _skrit-skrit_ of a mouse scurrying through the wall. It smells like something’s died in there and for a second he wonders if there really is a body. He doesn’t see anything, though, so y’know, it’s time to go.

He yanks the door shut, the humidity swelling it just enough to make it difficult, and turns around.

God, it’s just as creepy looking at the road from here as it was looking at the house from the road. All the weeds and that one scraggly tree and the rotting scare-

-crow?

He doesn’t remember seeing that on the way up, but maybe he missed it.

It’s creeping him out, though. It’s adding to the steady thought of _get out, get out, get out._

He’s just gonna go.

He steps off the porch and a crow soars down from the roof. Useless scarecrow, then, the birds are all over the place.

The crow flaps by and Alex is just about to appreciate the irony of the bird’s new intended perch when the scarecrow _moves,_ hands flying up to snatch the bird out of the air. The crow shrieks, claws scratching at the sleeves, and the scarecrow grips its neck. There’s a **crack** and the shrieking stops.

**_“What brings you up this way, child?”_ **

He has fucked up. He will never trespass again, he swears on Great-Aunt-Delilah’s grave, just please…

“I-I…my friend dared me, I didn’t realize, I thought-”

The scarecrow slides off its cross and hitches through the weeds. Alex backs up.

**_“Didn’t your parents ever teach you your manners?”_ **

“I’m so sorry-”

It rushes him. He sprints back towards the house, gets maybe ten steps before it tackles him.

“Please!”

_HISSSSS!_

* * *

They find Alex Clearwater two days later, when it comes out that the last time anyone saw him he was up by the old Keeny property.

He’s still there. They walk by him twice before somebody registers that the old scarecrow doesn’t look quite right, and that it shouldn’t be here. When the sheriff rips the stitched sack away, the very frightened-looking, very dead face of the missing boy looks back.

The sheriff vomits.

“There is a sign, you know.” Jonathan points out from the Richardson’s front porch, glass of lemonade in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. “Says clear as day, ‘no trespassers’.”

“I know, love.”

“Then why don’t people pay attention?”

“Don’t look at me.” Kitty steals a sip and grimaces. “Did you even put sugar in this?”

“Little bit.”

“This is death!”

“It is not. Now, that overly-sweetened syrup you insist is lemonade, _that’s_ death-hold still.”

“What?”

“You’ve got a-”

**WHAP!**

“The hell!”

“Horsefly. I missed, though…sorry.”

“On my arse.” He nods, expression so innocent that it’s guilty. “Give me that.”

“You’re a worse shot than me, absolutely not.”

“Give it!”

He holds it over his head, where it’s safest, and looks towards the little procession of cars driving down the road.

Pity, really. He’d hoped they wouldn’t find the boy until he’d had some more time to decompose.

THE END


	9. Spectrophobia

AN: ‘Fear of Ghosts’. The conclusion to the Babbit Bridge tale that started in last year’s ‘Things That Scare Me’ ( _Don’t Turn on the_ Light) and continued into ‘Dreaming Dreams No Mortal…’ ( _Phobias_ ). _Eyes Unable to Dream_ was SUPPOSED to be this, but then they went and nearly got murdered and it became a Thing.

_Kitty’s fault, entirely._

_ Oh, please. You didn’t have to come with. God knows I couldn’t drag you anywhere if my life depended on it. _

_You say that as though you don’t know I’d follow you to Hell if it existed._

_ Wouldn’t I be following you? I mean, you murdered two people before I got one. _

_Mm._

Recommended listening: Giles Corey’s ‘The Haunting Presence’.

* * *

He doesn’t see her until third period, and even then she sees him first.

“Hey!” To be fair, it’s not his fault she’s so short. “Have a good weekend?”

A bruise on his lower back dares him to lie.

“Pretty quiet. Yours?” Is there a trick to this, or does he just hand it over? He’s going to go with the ‘casual hand-off’ for lack of a better idea. “I have your scarf, it’s all dried off. Mostly. I think. Should be-it’s been all weekend, so-” Time to shut up. “Here.”

He practically flings it at her-whoops-and sidesteps a group of cheerleaders. He’s hoping for one of them-doesn’t matter which-to trip over something and fall, but no, they continue on down the hall, an impenetrable wall of giggling.

“So, in the interests of science, we need to go back.”

“Go back where.”

“The _bridge_.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “To investigate.”

“Investigate what?”

“The screaming ghost baby.”

Oh.

“There wasn’t anything. It was dark, and storming, and we both went out there expecting-consciously or not-to see something.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He doesn’t sleep much, actually, but it’s not the imaginary ghost baby’s fault. “But we still have to go.”

“You can go.”

“I get lost between classes still, you can’t let me wander the countryside by myself.”

That’s not fair. That’s not _fair_ , this is what he gets for letting himself be roped into relationships-friendship. That’s all he meant.

He opens the classroom door for her and lets her drag him to the back corner of the room.

“Really? I should let you wander. It would serve you right, this is ridiculous.”

She snorts.

“If I die, it’ll be your fault…anyway, I’m thinking reading Bible verses isn’t going to work, because with all the church-going here, surely there’d be runoff, y’know? Unless they were Jewish…”

“There’s nothing there. It’s like a Ouija board-combined hysteria can lead to shared hallucinations.”

“Then it’s perfectly fine to go back.”

He disagrees, but there really isn’t a good counterargument to be found.

“I don’t know…”

“It’ll be fun.”

Last time wasn’t so bad. Apart from the cold and the wet, that wasn’t fun, but…

“Fine. But there’s nothing there.”

“Says you.”

“Says science.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

He’s prepared to argue that one, but Mr. Wilkes raps on the board and his brilliant argument is forced to wait.

* * *

It’s not raining or threatening rain, and Jonathan’s grateful. He’s a little less grateful for the wind, because it makes the bridge creak and groan and he can’t be sure if it’s swaying or if he’s just paranoid. Such is life, he supposes.

It’s not so bad, really. He likes being out. With a friend. And out of the house. That’s the important thing here, being out of the house.

She drags him into the wash, which is a Terrible Idea. There could be a flood. The bridge could collapse. _There could be a landslide._

“Kitty-”

“Science.” she chirps, grinning up at him like she’s not completely insane. He sighs, hopes the bridge stays standing and that there’s no freak disasters.

“Science.”

“So come on, we have to make sure there’s no bird’s nest or something.”

He turns instead to the sun, which is steadily sinking downwards, casting long shadows that claw over the dirt and sink into the roof of the bridge. It’s a little creepy, he’ll ad-what’s that?

There’s something shiny on the side of the bridge and his first thought is that it’s the plaque, but that fell off years ago and they never put it back, so…

Huh.

It’s not that far down. He’s got long arms, he could probably reach it if he hung over far enough. Could explain the crying.

(And yeah, it’s shiny and it’s bugging him because _what is it?_ )

“Kitty.”

“Yeah?”

“If I fall and die, please come up with a better explanation. Frame someone.”

“What are you doing?”

He pretends not to hear her and heads onto the bridge. Okay, okay, it was right about here…

“Jonathan?”

“See if you can convince them I came back to haunt them.”

“Get down from there, you’re going to fall-”

Got it!

His glasses nearly slide off his nose and he may or may not do a circus seal impression trying to keep them on while he straightens back up. There. Glasses intact, shiny thing in fist, fall averted. Not bad.

“Are you insane? That’s it, you can’t lecture me for doing dangerous things-”

“Kitty, your dangerous things usually involve me.” he points out, because as tempting as it would be to let her wander off and get lost, he might feel a little bit guilty and it’s better just to go. “Besides, I’m fine.”

“What were you doing?”

“Saw something shiny.” She gives him a flat look. Oh, please, as though she wouldn’t have done the same thing if she could reach anything without help. What’d he end up with, anyway…oh. This is not the explanation for the crying, apparently. Alas.

It’s a cross, streaked with dirt. Some of said dirt’s washed away in the weekend rains, revealing just enough gold to catch the sun. The chain’s snapped near the clasp. It’s old, if he’s any judge, and he’d like to think he is-a childhood spent in what’s essentially a mausoleum may as well be worth something.

“What is that?” She leans over, watching him scrub at it with his thumb. He snorts.

“A cross. Which you’d know if you went to church.”

She glares at him, but the effect is decidedly lessened by the sucker caught between pursed lips.

“Piss off.”

He smirks and flicks the last of the dirt off the cross before holding it out.

“Here. You need it more than I do.”

“Don’t you preach at me, you’re the most hateful person I know.”

“Yes, but since I go to church once a week…”

“Because your grandmother drags you.”

“I’m still in it.”

She sticks her tongue-now bright blue-out at him and runs her fingers along the chain.

“How’d it even get up here?”

“I don’t know.” He supposes it could have broken when someone was leaning over, but the board wasn’t sticking out and surely it would have gone straight to the ground. “Freakish incident, I suppose.”

“Maybe it was the baby’s, and it caught and broke.”

Well. That’s…ghoulish.

“Mm-mm. Poor family, remember? They wouldn’t have wasted money just to throw the child into the river.”

She shrugs and drapes it around her neck, pinches it closed, and leans over. He tenses to yank her back (she’s tripped over thin air before, she’s just the type to somehow topple over), but she straightens up quick enough and steps back.

“Higher than I realised.”

Good, she won’t try to climb on it or anything silly. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and watches the wind blow a dried branch into the riverbed below. It’s easy, sometimes, to forget how _alone_ you can be out here. It’s a good twenty minutes back to town. No one’s going to hear you being murdered.

He knows this, mind, because someone _was_ murdered a few years ago, and remained undiscovered for several months.

“Well, o paranormal investigator?”

“We wait and see if it happens again.”

WHAT.

“Why? It’s cold, it’s windy, and it’s probably a plant. Or an animal.”

“Fine. I’ll come back alone. If I’m not back by morning, you can explain to my mother why I was out here all by myself, miles from help…”

“It’s hardly _miles_.” he grumbles, but explaining to Mrs. Richardson why her daughter was alone in the wilderness is not appealing. Nor is fending off the murder accusations that he’s sure will crop up, which will lead to Granny demanding to know what he was doing with that harlot next door, which…

This is incredibly unfair.

* * *

“I do this under extreme duress.” he informs her when they arrive back at the bridge. She grins up at him and pats his arm.

“Thank you, Jonathan.”

 _Fine_ , it’s only a little duress. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“We’ll see how much you thank me when we’re murdered by a roving serial killer.”

She snorts and flops down on the dusty boards at his feet. The bridge creaks but otherwise nothing happens. He sighs and sits down next to her, eyes fixed on the other end. At least it’s not going to rain tonight. Small favors and all.

He tucks his hands into his jacket. It’s cold out here and it’s not like he wants to be back at home, but couldn’t they go ghost-hunting in the summer?

Kitty stretches and swipes a lone weed that blew up here at some point, ties it in a knot. An owl dives for something in the riverbed. There’s a squeak and when it flaps back up, Jonathan can make out a clenched claw.

Everything’s quiet. So, really, it’s entirely reasonable that the sudden sound of footsteps scares him. He braces himself for the screaming, but it doesn’t come. Great, it really _is_ a serial killer, he doesn’t want to die this way-

Flashlight. Duh. Ridiculous, one of them should have turned it on at the start…why is it not turning on.

“Jonathan.”

“Battery’s dead.”

_“Jonathan.”_

“What?” He looks at her. She’s sat up and her face is as white as (so he presumes) the nonexistent ghost. “Kitty?”

She points.

This is bad, isn’t it.

He turns, mentally preparing for an ax to the skull, and sees a woman. His first, terrified, thought is, _GRANNY,_ but…

No, she’s too young. Her dress is similar, and she’s wearing a gold cross, but she doesn’t have a cane and she’s too young. For the life of him, he can’t place her.

“Miss?”

She doesn’t seem to see him. Kitty grips his arm and hisses, “I _swear_ she came out of nowhere-”

“It’s just dark-”

“I didn’t even blink and she was _there-_ ”

“Shh.” Either somebody’s playing a joke, or this woman is very lost. Maybe she’s…he doesn’t know, an escapee or something… “Miss? Can we help you?”

Kitty’s hand tightens. The woman doesn’t answer. All right, maybe she’s deaf, or drugged, or…

She comes closer and he moves back on instinct. Probably Pavlovian, something about that damn dress of hers is unnerving him. And Kitty’s panicking, which isn’t helping. There’s nothing to panic about, he needs to calm down. One of them needs a level head.

“Miss?”

She goes straight up to the edge of the bridge and grips it. It occurs to him, about now, that he shouldn’t be able to see her this clearly. Maybe Kitty got the light working-no, it’s still in his hand.

This has just started to register when the woman eases herself over the side-

-and falls.

There’s no scream, no sickening **thud!** of a body hitting the dirt below. They sit there for a second, maybe two, before scrambling up and leaning over.

“What the hell-”

“I don’t know-”

“We have to get down there, this isn’t that far of a drop-”

The light clicks on. Funny, he didn’t realize he was still trying. Who cares, who _cares_ -he aims the beam downwards, already dreading the sight of twisted limbs, and…

There’s nothing down there. That’s not _possible_ , he _saw_ her climb over, cool as you please, he’ll swear on his likely-soon-to-be _grave!_

“She was-”

“I told you came out of nowhere!”

“This isn’t possible!” He moves the beam, seeking any sort of sign. Did she cling to the underside like some sort of spider-lady? Is she insane and planning on killing them somehow? “She was here, she fell, she should be there!”

“Well, she’s not there now!”

“She has to be!” He steps back, intending to go down there, and she grabs his sleeve. “Kitty-”

“She came out of nowhere! She’s not there because she went back to…I don’t know, wherever she came from!”

“That’s not possible! She’s not a ghost, she’s a suicidal-”

An icy gust sends them both reeling backwards. Kitty lets go and digs something out of her pocket.

“I bet you this is hers.” She holds up the cross. It looks like hers, because they all look like that. “I bet you it caught when she jumped.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Do you see her?”

“No, but we’re going to go look. Come on.”

She follows him. Granted, they should probably just go, but what if she landed where he couldn’t point the light or something?

She’s not here. At least, she’s not on the ground. It’s not impossible that she could have…grabbed onto the edge of the bridge and worked her way across or down. Somehow. Or maybe she didn’t hurt herself and just walked away! Yes. Yes, that’s what happened. She took the hint, same as he had when his hand had gone off-track two years ago, and went home or…something.

“Well?”

“We should go.”

“I told you so!”

“She could be disturbed.”

“She’s not here!”

A dog barks and they scramble back up the banks. Mentally questionable women are bad enough, but stray dogs are an absolute NO.

They’re maybe ten feet away when a baby’s screams (wind, just the wind, or the dog) split the night. He pretends not to hear Kitty’s shaky, “I told you so.”

* * *

It’s suicidal, this. But.

He wants an explanation for that cross. (Not for the vanishing woman on the bridge, he has a _perfectly rational_ explanation for that, thank you very much.) But the cross is odd to him, and he can’t think of anyone else who might know.

So as much as he hates to do it, he does his chores without a word, makes her a new pitcher of lemonade without being asked (he could poison it, he thinks, end this…but she’s probably immune) and, when she’s busy stirring dinner and not chopping anything, takes this risk.

“Granny?”

“Hm.”

Well, it’s a promising start.

“Could I ask you a question?” She cocks one eyebrow at him and he swallows, wills himself to stay here. “About Babbit Bridge.”

“Why.”

“We’re doing a local folklore unit in English, and you know more than the library.” This is true. If she were less insane, he might enjoy her stories. She tells them well, anyway. “I have to write a paper, and I was wondering…were there any other deaths? I couldn’t find any, but the records aren’t…well-kept.”

“And they wouldn’t be.” she says, tapping the spoon on the side of the pot with a sharp **rap-rap-rap!** “Child aside-have I told you that one, Jonathan?” He nods. Her telling kept him for two nights, thanks. “I thought so…child aside, the mother followed along, a few days after. Guilt, I’m sure.”

“The mother?”

She smiles at him and he wants to run upstairs and barricade himself in his room until morning. Or maybe forever.

“When she found out the thing hadn’t perished in childbirth, she flung herself over the side and drowned.” She points the spoon towards the door. “Go out and fetch me some potatoes from the cellar.”

This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just coincidence, that’s all.

THE END


	10. Alliumphobia

AN: ‘Fear of garlic’. Really.

So for laughs, I was coming up with, like, ‘special attacks’ for some of my characters, like for a video game? Kitty’s got two: ‘Revenge of the Boston Tea Party-hurls scalding tea into opponent’s face, causing temporary disorientation’ and ‘Closer to Hell-shatters opponent’s kneecaps, causing temporary paralysis’. She’s thrilled. I’m not, because DANG IT KITTY, I WROTE YOU AS THE NICE ONE. LOOK AT YOU.

_ I’m the sociable one! It’s an easy mistake. _

I’ve created a monster. This wasn’t my intent. It wasn’t.

_ I mean, I suppose I’m the nice one. I ask after them as I’m removing their organs. _

Fantastic.

* * *

“Kitty,” Jonathan says faintly, once they’re in the car to go home at (is it really?) two in the morning, “I have a vampire for a patient.”

“Oh, you’ve found your kin!” He gives her a flat look. “Delusions of vampirism? Blood drinking?”

“Alliumphobia.”

“Explain like I’m five, love.”

“Fear of garlic.”

She does that annoyingly endearing thing where she snorts and starts to giggle into her hands. He starts the car and flails to turn the air off before they freeze and die.

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. Scarecrow hasn’t turned off his terrible Dracula impression all. Day.”

**_Fuck you, it’s great._ **

_No._

**_Okay, repeat after me, you’ll get dork-points, that works for you._ **

_Oh, no…_

**_Say, ‘I vant to suck your-’_ **

_I want to go to bed, and sleep. That’s all._

“He’s doing it now, isn’t he.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not attracted to vampires, just so’s you know. Necrophilia is not a thing I’m willing to go for.”

_So there._

**_They’re technically undead, so it would still work._ **

“He’s being an idiot.”

“It’s past his bed time.” She pats his arm. “Light’s green.”

**_WHAT._ **

_It_ is _late._

**_BED TIME!? WHAT? NO! I HAVE NO BED TIME!_ **

“So what are you going to do with him?”

“Scarecrow? Suffer.”

“No, your vampire.”

In between his horrendous vampire impressions, Scarecrow’s been begging for a crack at him. It’s tempting. This is one of those outlandish phobias that he was eighty percent certain only had a name because somebody was bored and wanted to feel clever.

Hm.

“I’m not sure yet.” he says, settling deeper into the seat and trying to tune out Scarecrow’s shrieks of, **_THE INDIGNITY!_** “We’ll see, hm?”

“Mm.” She draws her arms inside her jacket. “F’you say so, love.”

“If you fall asleep, I am not carrying you upstairs.”

She grins at him, sleepy.

“Liar.”

Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean he has to admit it.

* * *

This particular patient snapped, murdered his family with an ice pick, and tucked them all into bed as though nothing had happened.

He’s not at all interesting. Jonathan would have pawned him off if it weren’t for the meltdown over what was supposed to be garlic toast. This being Arkham, Jonathan doubts that’s what it was, but that doesn’t matter now.

He’s due for a session in about twenty minutes. Plenty of time to prepare. This is for his own good, you understand. This sort of phobia is not at all rational, and it’s _clearly_ affecting his quality of life. It is Jonathan’s duty as a doctor to offer what assistance he can.

If said assistance has the side effect of terrorizing the man, well…it always gets worse before it gets better.

Ah, the advantage of long limbs and a decent height-hanging a strand of dried garlic above the door is no problem. He’ll have to get some candles or something once this is over, but he’s willing to make these sorts of sacrifices. For the good of the poor, dumb souls in his care, of course.

**_You’re such a dick._ **

_Now, now. Exposure therapy has been proven to help-_

**_Admit it, you’re bitter that he cried and tried to hug you last time._ **

_An unfortunate incident._

**_ADMIT IT._ **

_I would have preferred that he not._

Scarecrow cackles. Jonathan takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes, and leans back into his chair. Ohhh, he wishes he’d gotten more sleep last night…really, another hour, even, would have been suitable.

**_HMMM?_ **

_Insomnia, remove your mind from the gutter._

**_Oh._ **

_Idiot._

**_YOU SONOFA-_ **

“Dr. Crane?” He looks up. “You ready?”

“Mm-hm.” So very much. “Bring him in.”

Remy Jones is led in, hands shackled (no need, but one must take precautions…) and eyes downcast. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

No matter. He’ll provide amusement-er, be healed-soon enough.

**_Oh my god._ **

_Silence._

**_I love you, kid. I really fuckin’ do. Never change._ **

He ignores Scarecrow. It’s his only defense.

“You can leave.” Witnesses-outsiders, he meant outsiders-often disturb the patients, making these sessions tragically ineffective. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Remy?”

Remy nods, picking at his uniform with stubby fingers. Been biting his nails again, has he? Lovely.

The guards leave and Jonathan replaces his glasses and fixes a bland smile on. Remy hasn’t noticed the garlic yet. Excellent.

“How are you feeling today, Remy?” He shrugs. Jonathan tsks and says gently, “We’ve talked about this. Words, not shoulders.”

“M’okay.”

“That’s better.” He flicks his eyes towards the garlic strand, hoping the simpleton will take the hint. “I understand there was an incident in the cafeteria recently, Remy. Why don’t we discuss that?”

**_I’LL HELP._ **

_Patience. You’ll have your turn soon enough._

Remy swallows and transfers his picking to his skin. Jonathan taps a pen and he stops, looking utterly miserable. Hm.

“Well?”

“It _burns_ , Doc.” Fine, whatever, now was there some sort of traumatic childhood incident? Traumatic adulthood incident? Or is this one of those ones that just cropped up out of nowhere? (He hates those, there’s no explanation and there’s not much to be done for fixing them, either.) “It eats through my skin-”

He’s getting agitated. No, no, it’s too soon for that.

“Calm down. Deep breaths, now.” He gestures with his pen and is gratified to see Remy’s eyes go back to downtrodden rather than panicked. “That’s right…so. Garlic, hm?” Remy nods, faster this time. “This is news to me…is this recent, or…?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Doc.” Why. Why do these… _charming people_ …insist on cutting off one little syllable? Why? “Sorry.”

“We must all step outside our comfort zones, Remy.”

**_Says you._ **

_Murder is outside most people’s comfort zones._

**_…true._ **

“But-”

“Which is why, in the interests of your treatment, we’re going to discuss it.”

“It doesn’t have shit to do with anything.”

_I’m tempted to step outside my comfort zone._

**_Did…did you want me to stop you? ‘Cuz I ain’t your impulse control, Jonny. That’s on you._ **

This is distressingly true.

“We can’t be sure until we investigate further. The human mind is a very complex thing. So. How far back does this go?”

Remy is silent. That’s fine. Jonathan, over the years, has mastered the art of making a silence very, very awkward. Most people, he’s found, has a fear of silence, a need to fill it with mundane babble. Heaven forbid, after all, that they be alone with their thoughts…oh. That’s right, they have none.

He busies himself with jotting down a few notes-the nail-biting is actually something he needs to track-and sure enough, Remy starts twitching and twisting.

Jonathan can pinpoint the exact _second_ he sees the garlic-he tenses, going the stillest he’s ever been in this room, and says, without turning around, “Doc.”

“It has been there since you walked in, Remy.” he says softly. “Nothing has happened to you in the…ten minutes…you’ve been here.”

“Take it away.”

“No.” Really, it’s as though he’s forgotten who’s in charge here. “It is going to stay there for the next thirty minutes, Remy. Turn around and **_look at me._** ”

_Wait._

**_Dude, you’re only scary if they’re looking at you. I’m helping._ **

Sadly, Scarecrow is correct. Kitty, after a few glasses of wine, once described him as a demonic choir boy. He doesn’t remember his response. He’d been keeping up with her well enough.

Remy does not turn around-either Scarecrow isn’t as effective as he thinks or the garlic is trumping him. Either way, they’re both now decidedly annoyed.

Jonathan opens his desk. The Mask gazes up at him, empty-eyed and limp, and Scarecrow stirs.

_He’s all yours._

Remy’s still staring at the garlic. Whatever. Scarecrow removes Jonny’s glasses-he’ll bitch if they get scratched, and he can see okay at this range-and pulls his face on. Ahh. Much better. _He_ is not a demonic choir boy, thanks.

 ** _“Reeeeemyyyyyyyy.”_** he whispers, pressing his palms flat against the desk. **_“Turn around, Remy.”_**

“Please, Doc-”

 ** _“Doctor Crane’s not here, Remy.”_** Oblivious fucker. TURN AROUND. COME ON.

_It’s human nature to keep dangerous things in view at all times-_

**_SHH._ **

He stands up and leans over the desk, fingers clawing for Remy’s uniform. The man finally twitches his head, just enough to see him.

“What the hell-”

**_“Remember me, Remy?”_ **

“No-”

 ** _“We had so much FUN!”_** They really had. Scarecrow had been coming from another cell and Remy had been drugged, staring out into the hall. Fear toxin had not been needed. **_“Now I’m here for you!”_**

“Get away!”

 ** _“Shh, shh.”_** Scarecrow pats him and lets go of his uniform. He gets up and stills, eyes darting between him and the garlic. The sight is…it’s art. **_“You can go, if you can get past that.”_**

“No…”

But he’s not screaming yet. Scarecrow’s disappointed. It’s that damn garlic! It’s upstaging him.

_Can’t have that._

**_DON’T YOU SNARK AT ME._ **

Because Jonny’s a paranoid bastard, he keeps their new gadget on while he’s at work. Scarecrow’s never been happier.

He grins and tilts his head to the left. Remy has just enough time to look terrified _and_ confused before he raises his arm and tilts his wrist. Remy’s head is enveloped in whiteness and he coughs, tries to bat at it with his cuffed hands.

“No, no, please-”

**_“Should’ve left!”_ **

He sees Scarecrow, and then he starts to scream. Y’know what? A little garlic never hurt anybody.

Scarecrow crosses the room and takes the garlic down, dangles it in front of him like a giant, bulby pendulum.

**_“Tick-tock, goes the clock, tock-tick go the hands! All the while counting down to the demise of man!”_ **

“PLEASE!”

Remy scrambles backwards, towards the window.

_DO NOT LET HIM JUMP. Explaining that is going to be a hassle._

**_Relax._ **

“Get away! Get away from me!”

Scarecrow steps closer. Remy makes some sort of…gurgle…and rams his head against the desk.

**_That was fun._ **

_Move, I’ll deal with this._

By the time the guards get back in here, the poor thing has knocked himself out. Jonathan, of course, has no idea what triggered the incident, but if the response times are going to be that slow, he’ll have to hire some new people. Really. Something could have happened to _him._

THE END


	11. Cynophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of dogs’. Continuation of ‘Atychiphobia’, and me getting my nerd on. Okay. So. Reed is shown to be scared of clowns. BUT he’s (apparently) dealt with that. ANYWAYS, in IT (novel), there is a character who is scared of dogs. In the miniseries, Pennywise appears as a clown with a dog’s head. So now we’re here.

It probably says something about the lack of fucks the average Gothamite has left to give that hauling Reed all the way down to the car is…easy. Technically-he’s heavy and uncooperative, but the one nurse they see buys their ‘poor Uncle Damian escaped his room, we’re helping him back’ story.

It would be concerning if it affected them. But it doesn’t, much like the murders on the news, so.

They cuff him to the backseat so he can’t roll out while they’re driving and once they’re a good five minutes away from the hospital, they r-e-l-a-x a bit.

“Wh-what do you want?”

“You’ll see-or.” Jonathan laughs, a little unsteady. ‘Well, I guess you won’t _see_ , but you know what I meant.”

“Please, I’m so sorry-”

“I know.” He cracks his neck and adjusts the vents. “I’m not very forgiving, though.”

“PLEASE-”

“No talking in the back!” Kitty snaps, and Reed yanks on his wrists but falls silent. Jonathan sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. “You all right, love?”

“Little tired. I wasn’t expecting Gordon.”

“Fair enough-if he’s not going to go the bloody speed limit, I’m going to run him off the road.”

Jonathan laughs again, a little more normally this time.

“I offered to drive.”

“You’ve been in a hospital for three years, I am not letting you drive.”

“I know how to drive! My dad used to let me do it all the time.”

“I’ve been with you when you’re driving, thanks.”

“I have a license!”

“Still!”

“I’m just saying, I did offer.”

“To drive us off the bridge, maybe-the hell is that?”

Something…big…flies by a building and through the giant ‘D’ of the Black Dahlia sign. Ah, Gotham.*

“What was that?”

“No idea-you hit me, I will hunt you down and string a cello with your _intestines_ , you sorry-”

“I can still drive if you pull over.”

Kitty’s fingers tighten on the wheel.

“Never.”

* * *

They take him back to the Crane house. They’re not staying there, too much of a risk, but out here, there’s no one to hear the screaming. And the police have come and gone, they won’t be back. Not yet.

Besides, out here’s the perfect place to bury a body. Open. No witnesses.

The medicine the hospital gave Reed for his eyes is wearing off, and he’s starting to make a low, steady keening noise, like an upset child. Serves him right, in Jonathan’s private opinion. An eye (ha) for an eye.

He’s been debating, ever since Scarecrow explained what they’d done, what to do to finish up. He’s had his share of daydreams, over the last few years, of turning the tables. Hooking him up to his own shock table, maybe. Locking him in a room with no human contact for weeks and weeks until the screaming stopped.

Eventually, said daydreams had grown more violent. Knives and syringes and maybe cramming handfuls upon handfuls of straw down his throat, to make him see what Jonathan saw every. Damned. Day.

For the moment, though, he’s content with isolation. And, if he’s being honest, a little curious as to what a second dosage would do. Scarecrow had hit him first, apparently, and there’d been screaming about clowns. He never understood people’s fear of clowns. There’s no reason for that. It’s a person with exaggerated makeup and loud clothing and some balloons. Maybe there was some childhood trauma…he hopes so.

Will he see clowns now, though? Or has he accepted them?

Yes. Yes, he’ll have to find out.

They wrestle him into the closet with Scarecrow’s old sticks and shove a chair up against the door just in case. And now, _finally_ , they can sit down and _stop_ for five minutes. Reed’s here, that’s been the stressor for the past week. He’s here and Gordon’s most assuredly too out of it to tell anyone what happened.

“Sit.” Kitty gives him a nudge, fingers light against his spine. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

He drops onto the couch, eyes on the chair Dad always used to grade papers in. Scarecrow stretches, straw poking at the dark corners of his head.

**_Someone needs a nap._ **

And this is really going to take some getting used to.

_I don’t need a nap. I need ten minutes and then I’ll be fine._

**_You suck at self-care. Seriously. SUUUUUCK._ **

_I’m fine._

**_I’m here because you suck at it. Just so you know, that’s sorta my thing, making sure you don’t die._ **

_I was fine without you._

**_Uh-huh._** Images flash behind his eyelids-Scarecrow’s rifling through his memories again. **_Uhh, I’ll take ‘deemed Bagel Bites a wholesome dinner three nights in a row’ for two hundred, Alex._**

Dad hadn’t gone shopping, that wasn’t his fault.

Kitty pokes his head and shoves his legs over to sit down.

“You need a nap.”

“I do not.”

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

**_BUSTED._ **

“I’m fine.”

“You’re still a terrible liar.” She stretches and drops her head over the back of the couch with a small _crick_. “Did you know that?”

“Haven’t had the chance to practice.” He’d forgotten how comfortable this couch really is. He’d fallen asleep here before, lots of times. Most of the time Dad would take him up to bed, but sometimes he’d be asleep in the chair or too busy to realize.

Five minutes. Five more minutes and he’ll get up.

Five more minutes…

* * *

Okay, so it was more like…five hours…but-although he’ll never admit it-Kitty and…and Scarecrow…were right.

“The liquid form is a lot stronger,” he’s explaining, “it’s just not as fast-acting. Like asthma medicine. I mean, I wouldn’t recommend either of them, but there you go.”

**_HEY! You can thank that stuff for ME, you ungrateful little-_ **

_Please be quiet…_

There’s a **_harrumph_** and scratching. He gets the impression Scarecrow’s crossing his arms and scowling.

“You do realize he’s not going to sit still for an injection.”

**_I GOT HIM._ **

_You really don’t._

**_Hey! I got that one guy up on the cross._ **

_Barely._

**_I think I liked you better when you were drugged._ **

Whatever.

“Kitty, you, ah…I think he’ll hold still.”

He opens the door. Reed is huddled in the corner. He doesn’t look well.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

He doesn’t appear to have heard the door open and you know, if he’s quick…and remembers to dodge that squeaky floorboard…

Reed hears him a second before the needle touches his neck, and by then it’s too late.

“Wait-”

He pats the man on the head and steps back.

“You’ve no one to blame but yourself.” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “After all, I learned that trick from you.”

“Jonathan, please-”

“No one’s coming, Warden.” The one great downfall of the, ah, lack of eyes? Little harder to tell when it’s taking effect. “That’s how this works, remember?”

Reed whines. Jonathan’s tempted to see if that old jack-in-the-box is around here somewhere. The noise might be enough to see if he’s still afraid of clowns or not.

…

Well? It’s been five minutes!

“Maybe he’s immune now?”

Unacceptable.

“Maybe he needs a higher dosage.”

And then, outside, a dog barks. A stray, probably. Nothing unusual. But Reed-

-Reed absolutely _panics_.

“NO!”

“Never mind.”

“Hang on.”

“What?”

But she’s already darting into the other room. He shrugs and picks up a broom, uses the handle to give Reed a good poke. Reed screeches and bats at it before trying to crawl behind a box labeled ‘Christmas’.

“Here it is!” Kitty brandishes her phone.

Her phone, with YouTube pulled up and ‘barking dog’ typed into the search box.

**_KEEP HER._ **

He grins at her, probably the first genuine one in a while, and motions for her to push play. The resulting noise is tinny, but to a man with a few too many milligrams of a fear-inducing hallucinogen in his system, well…

“Get it away! Get it away from me, PLEASE-”

“Well, well.” He scuffs the broom against the floor. It sounds a little like dog’s nails, if you’re imaginative. “What a shame. Childhood trauma, Warden? Tell me, and it’ll go away.”

“Please…”

“Full sentences, now.”

Reed shoves the box towards them and staggers to his feet. He’s not steady, not at all, and he half-falls against the wall. Kitty turns up the volume and he reels back, smacks his head against the wood and goes down.

“I didn’t quite catch that, Warden. Speak up!”

He’s…Jonathan thinks he’s crying. That’s apparently difficult to do with such a traumatic injury. The noises are consistent with crying, however, and he’s rocking a little. Not speaking, though, and you know what? They might be able to scrounge up some breakfast. He’s hungry.

“How much battery do you have? Enough to leave it on for a bit?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Little hungry.”

“Fair enough.”

She tucks the phone behind a small pile of cleaning supplies and they shut the door and prop the chair back against it. Reed starts to scream in earnest, raspy, near-continuous shrieks with no discernable words.

Half an hour later, when they’ve found Pop-Tarts and a box of hash browns, the screaming stops rather abruptly. That’s…concerning.

Even more concerning is the very _humanoid_ barking now coming from the closet.

“Should we go see?”

Well, yes, but…this stove is finicky. It incinerates things if not monitored.

“After breakfast.”

“Fair enough.”

THE END

*Jim caught _something_ that looked like Man-Bat…last season? I think? Fuck it, nothing stays in custody forever, it got out to make a cameo for me.


	12. Nyctophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of the dark’. Uh…sorry, Oswald. Alternate title: ‘Young and Menacing’-a mishear (?) of Fall Out Boy’s ‘Young and Menace’. Whatever, I like it better, sue me. I have nothing anyway. *throws middle fingers to the sky and backflips off a building*

Dove would like it known that she wouldn’t actively wish this insanity on anyone. But she’ll happily place the blame where the blame is due, and that is squarely on the hunched little shoulders of Oswald Cobblepot.

What? If he wants to get into it when some kid that thinks, ‘y’know what’s a great idea? Dressing up as a scarecrow and driving people insane with terror!’, it’s his own damn fault when said kid retaliates.

She felt sorry at first, because Crane really _is_ a kid-he’s what, nineteen? If?-and that whole thing with his dad a few years ago…that’s awful, honest. But…but…come on, man, why are you Like This?

_Gee, boss, can’t you just let him have those small-timers? Keep the peace ‘n all?_

This dumpster fire of a situation started because Cobblepot wanted what was left of the would-be gang, as punishment for humiliating him. Crane wanted them for…for…y’know, she’s not sure. Seeing as they had his dad’s formula, she’s guessing professional pride or…something. Who cares.

Penguin, apparently. Penguin cares. ‘This sort of insult cannot stand’, he’d hissed, snapping the piece of straw that had been taped to his door. ‘I had them first, and that’s final.’

Yeah. Sure. Because this is a great hill to die on.

She’s thinking the boss underestimated the kid. He does that. Usually works out in the end, but still.

It might not work out this time-the underestimation doesn’t appear to be mutual.

It’s a busy night-and where the hell is Ivy, Dove needs hands here!-and at first nobody cares that the doors have flung open and that a group of men have come in. Okay, so they’ve got gas masks, but maybe they’re here to see the boss about…something that Dove knows nothing whatsoever about. Maybe they’re selling Girl Scout Cookies.

At least, that’s the thought. Then the bouncer starts screaming and everybody twists towards him to see what’s going on.

Crane is here. She hasn’t seen him before, just blurry pictures people have caught with their phones, and that get-up would be laughable if it weren’t for the reputation he’s building. And the scythe. The scythe is bad.

**_“I’m here to see the Penguin!”_ **

Dove’s inner Selfish Gothamite chimes in with a, _well, nice seein’ ya, kid!_ What? You grow up here, you run out of fucks to give real quick.

Cobblepot makes his way through the crowd. Dove sees a few people looking about to run and wonders if she can tag along.

“The Scarecrow, I presume.” She doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s got his murder-smile on. “Who’s your tailor?”

Crane’s head tilts so it’s nearly touching his shoulder. The effect is creepier than it should be.

 ** _“Hello, Mister Penguin.”_** Cobblepot bristles a bit at the tone. **_“Did you get my note?”_**

“If you call a piece of straw a note, _boy_ , yes.”

**_“No chance of an agreement, then?”_ **

“Not a chance in Hell.”

That’s it, if Crane comes after her, she has never met that nut in her life. Nope. Penguin? Who’s that? Isn’t that a bird?

**_“Good.”_ **

What.

And then the lights go out.

There’s gasps and little shrieks. Dove ducks behind the bar counter and feels under there for her phone. Screw Cobblepot’s little feud with him, she’s texting Gordon. Hopefully he hasn’t changed his number…

She hates this phone and its giant screen.

“I’m not impressed, _Scarecrow_.” She can take a sec to appreciate the sheer level of disdain. Cobblepot really is a high school alpha bitch in the body of a crime lord. “Last warning-turn around and leave.”

There’s no sound of the door opening and closing and she figures he’s not leaving. When she sticks her head up a bit, she’s proven right.

_Please just posture at each other until a professional shows up…_

Cobblepot raises a hand, probably to motion for security, and Crane grabs his wrist. Shit. Shit. This is gonna be bad-

“Shoot him, you idiots!”

And then Crane forces their hands back towards Cobblepot’s face, and the screaming starts.

_Not again…_

Cobblepot goes down hard-that’ll bruise-and Dove ducks back down.

**_“Look at your leader! Touch those guns, and you’ll be joining him!”_ **

Friiiiiiiiiick…

One of the guests makes a run for it. He gets maybe three steps before Crane whirls around, scythe whipping through the air, and his head rolls under a table a few feet away.

And then all Hell breaks loose.

She ducks back down, clutching the phone and wishing you could text 911. Cobblepot’s not the only one screaming now, but she can’t tell who’s been gassed and who’s just panicking. There’s gunshots, too, but at least one hits a bottle of simple syrup and she’s betting that was fear gas-caused.

Why is Gordon not texting back? The fuck, if she could text the cops, she would, but she can’t, so answer your goddamn phone! That’s it, that’s it, she’s not sticking up for the selfish prick ever again. Penguin can add him to the Frozen Ex Exhibit for all she cares.

**CRACKLE!**

One of Crane’s goons is enveloped in blue, eyes comically wide. Victor is here, oh thank Jesus.

They clear out pretty quick after that, leaving their fallen member behind, and Dove scrambles out from behind the counter to check the boss. He’s curled on the sticky floor like a dead centipede, arms over his head and fingers knotted in his hair. Okay…okay, boss first, minimize that fallout.

“Call the cops!” she snaps over her shoulder, giving Cobblepot a poke with his now-broken (stepped on) umbrella. He doesn’t stir. Crap. “Sir?”

She didn’t have to deal with this last time. Zsasz dealt with it. She’s pretty sure that means ‘hit him in the back of the head’, but nobody can prove it.

She’s not willing to take that sort of risk.

“Okay, boss, c’mon, you’re okay, Crane sorta…okay, it’s Crane’s fault, you gotta snap out of it.”

There. Are. Tears. She is not paid enough for this, come on…

Crane is officially in the Top Ten Biggest Douchecanoes of Gotham City.

“C’mon, sir, let’s get outta here, s’okay…” She hopes he doesn’t panic and stab her, gets her hands under his arms, and hauls him off the floor. “S’just poison, okay, it’s that crap of Crane’s-eep!” There’s now hugging _and_ tears. Dove has never been more terrified in her entire _life_. “Uh, boss? Mr. Cobblepot?”

“Please don’t leave me in the dark-”

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god, she knows too much. SHE IS GOING TO BE MURDERED FOR THIS.

“Get the lights back on!” What? Someone _could_ be bleeding, after all. “Today, dammit! Uh, sir, it’s…it’s all fine, okay? You gotta snap out of it and scheme or somethin’, right? For revenge.”

Cobblepot’s only response is to squeeze her and press his face against her shoulder. The lights are still not on and fuck it, she’s gonna get him outta here before something _else_ happens.

“We’re leaving the dark now, boss. Come on, you gotta move a little bit, okay?”

It’s a slow, awkward shuffle, but she manages to half-drag him out of the main room and into his office. The lights are working again by this point and she’s never been more grateful.

“Okay, sir, you’re okay, you can let go…” Nothing. There is no letting go. “Uh, boss?”

She finally looks, _really_ looks, and it occurs to her that Oswald Cobblepot looks like a stabby Dobby when he’s upset. The similarities make trying to shove him off a sudden impossibility, because what monster is anything less than nice to _Dobby?_

God dammit.

“Please let me out…”

She’s a little curious, if she’s bein’ honest, what the story is here. Not curious enough to ask, but curious all the same.

“You’re out, boss. You’re okay. It’s in your head, that’s all.” _Because you had to pick a fight with a bona fide whackjob. Good going._ “Let’s get some water, huh? Water’s good. You’re s’posed to drink like, eight glasses a day or something, but I don’t think anyone ever does that…let’s never speak of this again, okay? Like, ever. Like that one awkward hangover*. It’s like that. It’s vaulted.”

Most of the beverages in this office have alcohol in them, and she’s gonna remember that in the future, but there’s a couple of really overpriced water bottles claiming to be ‘Five times filtered!’ and ‘only the finest mountain spring water!’

Whatever. It’s probably safer than Gotham’s tap water, but that’s not hard.

“C’mon, sir, just a sip, I swear it’ll make this better-”

It takes an awful lot of coaxing, and maybe a little more force than she’d like, but she manages to get him to drink some. Sort of. He’s shaking really, really badly and a fair chunk of it ends up on him rather than in his mouth, but-

“What is going on.”

Huh.

What the hell? What the hell! He’s not crying now. What the hell just happened?

“Crane…sir? Sir, you were just-I swear-”

He scrubs at his face and looks at the water bottle. His eyes are still puffy (okay, his whole is puffy and gross now and so’s her shirt), but he’s, uh, normal. Y’know. Penguin-normal.

Crane’s _screwed_.

“You know _nothing_.” he hisses, but the effect’s a little ruined by the raspy, gurgly voice. She nods anyway.

“Not a thing, sir.”

“Where’s Crane.”

“He booked it. Victor-Fries, not Zsasz-showed up.”

“Excellent.” He shakes the water bottle, takes another drink. “I think it’s time for Jonathan Crane to be all washed up.”

Oh, boy.

THE END

*I will expand on this one day, but long story short, Mother’s Day Drunken Bonding happened. Lotta wine. So very much wine.


	13. Thalassophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of deep water’. Perfectly rational, if you ask me-who knows what the hell’s down there. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen plenty of documentaries. I KNOW THINGS. (Nobody in their right mind goes swimming anywhere but an indoor pool in Gotham, by the way-Croc could be in there with you.)
> 
> Recommended listening: Ludo’s ‘Lake Pontchartrain’.

The water surrounding Gotham is…well, it’s just as gray and likely-to-be-filled-with-corpses as the rest of the city. The area by the east docks is the worst. This is probably because it’s a prime meeting spot for…unsavory…activities. Everybody knows that if you see anyone there after six PM, they’re doing something illegal, turn around and leave while you still can.

It smells. Jonathan’s personal theory is that it’s a hang-on from all the bodies that end up here. That’s thing, with all the criminal activity. Tempers run high, somebody doesn’t get their money, and **BAM!** , there’s a corpse in the water.

“He’s late.” Kitty grouses, looking at her phone. The light’s brighter than it probably should be. “This is ridiculous.”

“Mm.” What time is it, anyway…after midnight. He didn’t leave work early for this! If their contact isn’t here in the next fifteen minutes, he’s going to have a brand-new test subject. (New formula, it’s lasting longer than it was, but it brings with it seemingly permanent amnesia-nobody’s remembered anything at all and it’s _frustrating_.) “Maybe something’s happened to him.”

“Serves him right.” She yawns and leans her head on him, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re warm.”

“I’m warmed by irritation.”

“Tha’s good.”

He slumps against her and they fall into a companionable silence, watching the dark, choppy waters. They’re saying a shark was sighted out there last week, a big one. Jonathan would normally scoff, but Cobblepot’s become decidedly interested and that…that makes him wonder. Penguin’s a rational man, usually. Why in the world he wants a _shark_ is a mystery, but…

Maybe the shark ate their correspondent.

If Jonathan’s being very honest with himself-and why not, he’s bored-he’s not…overly fond…of water. Never has been. To be fair, there’s been a couple of incidents that didn’t help, but even as a very little boy, he was never one to get too close to the water’s edge. Guster’s Pond, back in Arlen, was deeper than it looked, and there were grasping weeds down there that caused more than one drowning. Gotham? He’s not getting near anything that’s not well-lit and sanitized. Who knows what’s in it.

“What’s that?”

Kitty, unfortunately, has no such common sense.

“What.”

She points. He looks, sees nothing because it’s _dark_ and it’s _raining_ and nobody can see anything in that water anyway.

“There’s something out there.”

“Helpful.”

“C’mon, maybe it’s our…friend.”

He hopes so. If they leave in the next half-hour, they can stop by that Chinese place that’s open ‘til two and grab dinner.

Mm…wontons.

They shuffle towards the edge of the docks. Yeah, there’s…nothing whatsoever. No contact, no nothing.

Ugh.

“Well?”

“I thought I saw…” She shrugs. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Do you need to borrow my glasses?” She flicks him, barely noticeable with all the layers. He smirks at her and deadpans, “Oh, the agony.”

If she’s got a comeback, she doesn’t get to say it-an arm bobs to the surface. That’s nothing special. Distasteful, but nothing special-

**CHOMP!**

They’re running away from the edge before the water stops churning.

“The hell-”

“No idea-”

“-you _see_ -”

A thick, scaly hand pops up and grips the dock and you know what, never mind about the contact, they’ll reschedule.

They’re in the car and driving away before whatever the hand belongs to can haul itself up.

“Next time, we meet in a building.”

“Agreed.”

THE END


	14. Iactrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of doctors’-in this case a little less ‘literal’ and more ‘Dr. Crane is a doctor and should be feared’. Alternate title: ‘Pop Psychology’.
> 
> Harley’s reimagining for WB’s The Batman was kinda meh (she may be nuts, but not like that), but I DID like her show. Or, rather, what I could do with a show like that. >-)
> 
> In other news, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, TV AUDIENCE!

Dr. Phil Drew smiles and waves and takes a seat on the amazingly uncomfortable set couch. He wasn’t so sure about this at first, but the Joker and Harley Quinn sent squirting flowers (harmless ones, amazingly enough) and well…the ratings were higher than they’d been in weeks, so…

It’ll be fine.

He takes a drink of water and hopes the ratings will go high enough to get them a new sofa. This one’s scratchy.

Hopefully this will all go as well as it did before. He’s a little curious as to what Crane and Richardson might send-black roses, maybe, or a little scarecrow doll.

“And we’re back!” He smiles, shows all his teeth. It’s Gotham Primetime Television, people want trustworthy-yet-sleezy. It’s how they roll. “Tonight, we’re looking into one of Gotham’s most famous crime couples-Jonathan Crane, better known to all of you as the Scarecrow, and Kitty Richardson.”

The audience claps politely. Drew says a mental prayer for luck and just goes for it.

“We’ll be discussing their motivations, going all the way back to their troubled childhoods and first meeting in high school.” His voice isn’t shaking, is it? “So don’t go anywhere, and we’ll be back after a word from our sponsor!”

Yeah, he knows. Commercials out the wazoo. There’s nothing he can do about it.

* * *

“It is my professional opinion that their motivation is not science at all, or even something as simple as a power complex, but rather a sexual sadism.”

The audience claps politely (he thinks there might be a cue card that makes them do it, because that wasn’t applause-worthy) and Drew takes a drink of his water. Fifteen more minutes. Christ.

The clapping dies down and then a couple of wise-asses keep doing it-on the stage behind him.

He turns around to see what the hell this is and feels his complaint crawl back down his throat to hide.

He wouldn’t know either of them if he were to see them in the street, but the burlap mask hanging delicately from the man’s pale fingers is a dead

_Ha-ha, dead…fuck me._

giveaway.

“Bravo, Doctor.” Crane’s voice is dry and expressionless. “You got things exactly right, save for…oh, nothing major really, just… ** _everything._** ”

“I-I-I-”

“Stop stammering, it’s irritating.” His fingers move against the mask. “But everything’s going to be fine now! We’re here to help you fix your mistakes…but if any of you try to run, the building will be flooded with…what was your term…”

“Synthetic insanity.” Richardson says icily. She pulls away from Crane’s side and draws a gun.

_No no please I’ll retire I swear-_

**BANG!**

One of the cameramen, a brave soul with his phone out, drops like a stone. Drew swallows the urge to vomit.

“I’m sorry, I-”

They settle onto the guest sofa. Nobody claps now and he’s not sure if that will please them or enrage them. They don’t complain, or do anything to the audience, so he supposes that not-clapping is a good thing.

“Where shall we start?”

He can’t find any words that aren’t, ‘please god don’t I’m sorry I’ll leave the country’.

“Well, Doctor?” Crane smiles, a forced, brittle thing. “Do you wish to back up your theories? Think carefully.”

“I’m so sorry the producers-”

“ _You’re_ not a brave one, are you?” He raises an eyebrow. “So willing to throw your comrades to the wolves to save yourself…” The smile warms, a little. “I do so love getting ones like you.”

Drew swallows hard. He’ll stall-they’re on the fucking air, the police are on their way, they have to be. He’ll just to not make it obvious, and not make them mad.

“Kitty?”

She hangs over the arm of the couch and before Drew can say _anything,_ she’s fired the gun again. Someone in the front row slumps down, head gone, and there’s screams. A few people are crying.

“You never answered my question, Doctor.” Crane cracks his neck and grimaces. “The longer you go without doing so, the more people will die. And the bullets are limited-there’s four left, then I start with the audience participation.”

He’s made a huge mistake.

Richardson lounges against the arm of the couch, legs thrown carelessly across Crane’s lap, and smiles at him.

“It’s easy. Just be good and cooperate and nothing bad will happen.” She bites her lip and shrugs. “Maybe.”

Great. The only ones who know the rules are the crazy people! If he gets outta this, he is moving, but first he’s suing for unnecessary job risks and shit security and trauma.

“Well? Tick-tock, tick-tock…”

“No!” His voice is a little too hysterical and he swallows hard. “No. No, I don’t think that I-”

“Oh, so you’re making this up as you go?”

“That’s not what I said-”

“Say what you mean. Go on. We don’t bite.”

He almost wishes for a bitey one.

“I-I…” Can’t they blink? Would it kill them to blink? “Um…”

“You scared him.” Richardson nudges Crane’s ribs. “This is your fault.”

“You were the one firing at the audience.”

“But you’re the scary one.”

“I don’t…have…back up.” Drew whispers. Did they hear him?

They did. Crane looks at him in mock horror and murmurs, “The least they could do is hire an actual professional.”

“Anybody can be a professional these days, with the internet.”

“And they wonder why I despair of humanity…Philip, isn’t it?” He can’t speak, can’t nod, and Crane’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t make me look it up.”

“Y-yes.” he whispers. Richardson drapes the hand with the gun over the arm of the couch. “Yes, that’s my name, I-”

“What could have possessed you to start spreading such slander, hmm? Difficult childhood? Tragic breakup? Was a loved one a patient of mine?”

“N-no, like I said, the producers-it went well enough with the Joker-”

“I see.” Neither of them look happy. “How unfortunate. For you.”

“I-I-”

There’s another shot and wailing. Richardson stretches.

“Stop talking, sweetie, it’s not doing you any favors.” She nudges Crane’s ribs with her toes. “Maybe we should just go for the audience participation.”

“I’m thinking we have to. Shame. I was hoping for an actual discussion…alas.” He twists his fingers into a knot and straightens up. “I should know better, I suppose.”

“You should.”

Crane smiles. It’s quite possibly the most horrible thing Drew has ever seen in his entire life.

“Please-”

“Shh.” He stands up, joints snapping, and tilts his head. “I suppose you could count as an audience member…you’re certainly no professional.”

“No, no, please, I’m so sorry-”

“Relax.” Crane says mildly, removing his glasses and tucking them into an inner pocket. “I’m a doctor.”

It’s crazy, but Drew will swear on his mother’s Bible that Crane blinks and…isn’t there anymore. Oh, the man is there, but the eyes aren’t right.

What the hell-

The man pulls the mask over his head and moves forward, hands shooting out to rest on the arms of Drew’s chair.

 ** _“Tell me, Drew…”_** WHAT THE HELL- **_“What scares you?”_**

He gets out one last no before Scarecrow’s on him, one hand yanking his head back and the other bending backwards to activate the mechanism in his sleeve. Then smoke envelopes his face.

It’s bitter and it stings and Drew tries and fails not to gasp for air. Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, nothing’s real, nothing’s real-

**_“WHAT DO YOU SEE?”_ **

Scarecrow’s face is melting, dripping liquid straw into his lap. He kicks out and the bastard dodges.

**_“Ah, ah, ah!”_ **

“Get away from me!” He struggles to his feet, floor pitching beneath him, and catches sight of a white coat. “Get away!”

Scarecrow’s only response is to laugh. Drew shrieks and tries to run, ends up falling flat on the floor.

Around him, the screams of the audience mix with his own.

THE END


	15. Climacophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear of stairs, of climbing/falling down stairs’. Merton is the Lead Asshole, the one who thought mouthing off to Zsasz was a good idea and lost a finger (get it, Zsasz!). On a related note, I’m still not over the fact that those pricks Rickrolled us. Really. This show. I swear.
> 
> Recommended listening: Dorothy’s ‘Medicine Man’.

Merton comes to in the dark.

His head hurts. So does his hand-that fucker Zsasz is gonna pay one day-and he can’t remem…

Oh. Yeah, he kinda can. Penguin. Jail. Power outage. Heavy object to the back of the head.

Well, shit.

This is probably Penguin’s retaliation. And like he’ll ever admit it to the little creep’s face, but…

He’s fairly alarmed here.

**Clink-clink-clink.**

The hell?

“What’s goin’ on?”

_Click._

A single light bulb is turned on, the crappy circle of light it provides doing exactly nothing to reveal his surroundings. Penguin’s a dramatic bastard, what the hell, this town used to better than this…

“Hello!” What the hell. “I was getting worried…it’s been a few hours. Apparently it’s really easy to put someone in a coma…the more you know, huh?”

Merton has never been more confused in his life, and that includes Trig.

The light is big enough to reveal a girl. O-kay, then. So are they gonna go with a…good cop, bad cop routine? He’s not impressed. And he’s a little annoyed-what, so he’s not good enough for Penguin to come see him?

Fucker.

(At least it’s not Zsasz, though, he’s not that proud, he doesn’t want to be in Zsasz’s basement.)

**WHAM!**

Blinding pain rips through his knee. What the hell? What the hell?

The girl is holding a pipe. Okay. Okay, maybe she’s not the good cop. Shit.

“The fuck!”

“Least you can do is make conversation.” Uh-oh. This is gonna be bad, isn’t it. Oh, the irony of wanting to be back in jail… “Just to make sure…Merton Harris, right? Responsible for a string of robberies, picked a fight with the Penguin, kidnapped Jonathan Crane from Arkham?”

Um.

What.

“You go tell Penguin-”

**WHAM!**

New pain, and he’s not sure he didn’t imagine that **CRACK**.

“Yes or no?”

He pinches his lips shut. Penguin can come down here himself or he’s getting _nothing_. Honor among thieves and all.

The girl sighs.

“I’m going to have to take that as a yes. Hope so! The next little while isn’t going to be fun…” She grins at him. The shitty lighting makes it a lot creepier than it should be. “Before we begin…I don’t work for Penguin. You’ll wish I did, I’m sure, but…anyway, your cousin informed us you’re the ringleader here.”

Grady? The fuck did Grady get him into? Who’s the crazy girl?

“Look, kid, you got a lot to learn about tellin’ people shit. Less is more.”

She shrugs, scuffs the floor with the pipe.

“It’s not like you’ll be in any shape to share.”

**Clink-clink-clink!**

Merton cranes to see what _that_ is, but the light isn’t enough and he can’t make anything out. Damn. When he gets outta here, Grady’s gonna be in so much trouble…little shit left them, and then blabbed, and…

How are they even related, man? How?

“So. Jonathan Crane. You’re the one who took him out of Arkham, yes?” Uh. What does Crane have to do with anything. (Shit, Grady let him out, right? If he starves and dies they’re all screwed.) “I should thank you, I guess. But…” She shakes her head. “Really. Really. Kidnapping? Psychological torture? Manhandling? Tsk, tsk.”

Uh-oh. He’s got two explanations here and they’re both bad-vengeful relative or vengeful girlfriend. Fuckin’ Gotham, man…Grady did not warn him about any of this and he’s pissed.

“Look, better us than Arkham.” It’s kinda true. They fed the kid somethin’ that wasn’t radioactive and laced with drugs. “Really, last I saw him, he was fine. Lemme go and we can go-”

**WHAM!**

The pipe hits his ribs this time, knocking the wind out of him and sending him lurching forward in a vain attempt to protect himself. It’s about now that he registers that his hands and feet are _firmly_ tied to the chair.

“Don’t. Lie. To me.” Shit. “Do you know what happened to your cousin, Merton? Would you like to see?”

WHAT DID SHE DO TO GRADY. Fuckin’ bitch, Grady is _his_ sucky relative, he’s the only one allowed to give him shit and bruises!

“What did you do-”

“Nothing. But I got a picture! Hang on…” The light of the phone is nearly blinding, but it’s just as useless as the single bulb at revealing the room. “Sorry for the quality, I got something in the lens and the camera’s never been great since.”

She stands up, phone in one hand and pipe in the other, and circles around the chair, leans over him. He squints at the phone, already dreading what he’ll see, and goes cold.

Grady, bless his stupid heart, Grady…

He’s dressed up like a scarecrow and hung up on a cross outside Crane’s house. The hell, the _hell_ , he’ll kill her-

He snaps at her fingers-shut up, it’s what he can do-and she taps the pipe ever so gently against his ankle.

“No.”

“The hell did you do to him-”

“Nothing! God, listen.” She returns to her chair. “You can’t tell in the picture, but he’s been dosed up with fear gas. Overdose, I guess. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there.”

No.

No, no, he knows what that stuff does, no-

“You fucking bi-”

**WHAM!**

That’s a rib cracked. Hurts less than losing the finger, but makes swearing at her a lot harder. He settles for glaring.

**Clink-clink-clink!**

What _is_ that?

He twists, trying to see _something_ that’s not dark, and comes up blank. The girl taps the pipe against the cement and stands up.

“Maybe you’ll be nicer to Scarecrow.” she says, and what the hell is she _talking_ about?

If he ever gets out this, he’s never going anywhere near Crane again, not without a shotgun and a ticket to France.

“Hey. Hey! What the hell?”

But she’s melted into the dark, leaving him unsure if she’s still here or not. He can’t hear anything. Can’t see anything, either.

Okay. Okay, he’ll just get to work on freeing himself, then. Get out, get to Grady, go from there.

 _Damn_ , these ropes are _tight_! Great, he would have to get kidnapped by a crazy Girl Scout…c’mon, c’mon…

_Creeeaaak!_

Huh?

A beam of light cuts into the room and he looks up. There’s a door, and stairs. And at the top of the stairs…

The hell?

Look, that stupid scarecrow…he didn’t like it either, really, but it kept Crane nice ‘n cooperative, that’s all, that’s _all_ -

And now it’s here.

It’s standing at the top of the staircase, scythe in hand, and his first thought is that the girl’s set it up there for…some reason. But then it starts to move, scythe tapping against the cement with a light _clink-clink-clink!_

How long has it been in here what the hell even is that- _is that Crane?_

Okay. Okay, he has fucked up, but there’s gotta be a way to get out of…whatever’s going to happen to him. Be calm. Everything’s fine, it’s all just a big misunderstanding.

“Jonathan? S’that you?”

It has to be. He’s pretty sure it’s the same stuff that was on that ratty-ass scarecrow, which probably isn’t good, but…

The scarecrow stills, just for a moment, before resuming its slow drudge down the stairs.

 ** _“Jonathan’s not here right now.”_** Okay, that’s really creepy and he’s starting to regret all of his life choices. **_“Just me.”_**

It might be Crane’s voice, but it sounds so _wrong_.

“Uh…”

 ** _“You’ve been very rude, Merton.”_** Maybe it isn’t Crane’s voice. He has no idea and y’know what, he doesn’t care, he needs to get out of here. **_“I didn’t need your HELP.”_**

What.

“Look, man, I’m really sor-”

The scarecrow reaches the foot of the stairs and raises a finger.

 ** _“Shh.”_** He shuts up and tries bloodying his wrists to get free. He can’t even do that-the ropes are way too tight. The scarecrow moves closer, rests one hand on the ropes. **_“Remember me?”_**

It _is_ the scarecrow, he remembers seeing that haphazard stitches on the face, what the hell what the hell they fucked up real bad-

“What did you do to Grady.”

The scarecrow seems to brighten. Somehow.

 ** _“He screamed and he screamed, right up until he started hitting his head against the stove…saw something he didn’t like.”_** It laughs and straightens up, leans its weight on the scythe. **_“Wonder if you’ll do the same?”_**

WHAT.

“No. No, no, no-”

It nods.

**_“Yes.”_ **

And then there’s bitter smoke in his lungs. He coughs, trying to get it out, and shakes his head frantically. Shit. Shit. Okay. Okay. Not real, he can’t hurt himself, he’s stuck in this chair and that’s _good-_

**Rrr-rrr-rrr!**

No! No!

The scarecrow’s sawing at the ropes with the scythe, blade centimeters from his wrists. Merton grips the arms of the chair, floor already tilting beneath him, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s just gonna stay here, he’s gonna stay here and not look and it’ll wear off, it’s gotta-

The chair tips and he tries to tip it back and can’t, ends up being dumped onto the cold floor. The impact makes everything hurt.

 ** _“Run along, Merton!”_** He pulls his arms over his head to drown out that _voice_. **_“Or I’ll chop off your head!”_**

Okay. Okay, he can keep his eyes shut and just…crawl. Everything’s fine, nothing’s real, he’s gonna get outta here right now.

His hands brush the base of the stairs and he scrambles back. He can’t go up there, not like this, he’ll fall he’ll _fall_ like that guy in _Psycho_ and he doesn’t wanna fall-

 ** _“Having trouble?”_** the scarecrow mocks from somewhere behind him. **_“Awww, don’t tell me you can’t get up!”_**

He coughs again, trying to dislodge the shit from his lungs, and doesn’t answer.

**_SCHWING!_ **

The scythe hits the ground inches from his feet and he yelps, tries to muster the courage to scramble up. He ends up getting maybe three stairs away before he just _can’t_.

**_“Don’t worry, Scarecrow will help you!”_ **

He doesn’t want that he doesn’t want this he wants to go home-

_Clatter!_

Before he can register what that noise was, two pairs of hands-one scratchy and one not, grasp his arms and he’s pulled, struggling all the while, up the stairs. They bruise as he bumps against them and he can’t pull too hard because what if they _let go?_

 ** _“Here we are!”_** The hands release him and he scrambles away by default.

And realizes too late that he went the wrong way.

He hits the cement with a sickening **CRACK!** and then there’s nothing more.

THE END


	16. Swinophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of pigs’.
> 
> So Professor Pyg is coming and I am HERE for that because it has the potential to be deliciously freaky. Halloween Specials all season, yes please. ANYWAYS, there’s that one poor sap that’s scared of pigs in season one, yes? But he gets rescued. Gerald kept notes, he was sciencing, there were notes. I know this. So we’re gonna have some fuuuuun. And some canon mishmashing.

Rare Gotham sunshine beams in through a cracked window and onto Jonathan’s ragged jeans. He barely notices, too busy rifling through a notebook with tattered pages and a stained cover.

He remembers that one because it was just so _macabre_ and _come on_ , how do you even get that into your head-

“Jonathan.” He glances up, hands shaking a little (why are they doing that and what _time_ is it there’s _sun_ ). Kitty’s standing in front of him, eyebrow raised. “I thought you were going to take a break.”

**_You been busted, son._ **

_Nobody asked you._

“I…did?”

The eyebrow goes higher. Somehow.

“You don’t sound very sure.”

Yeah…

He sets the notebook aside and stretches, feels things crack that probably shouldn’t. God, he’s tired, he hasn’t slept well since…

Since…

He can’t remember. He knows they kept him sedated at the hospital, for his own safety-he still has numb spots on his arms and legs*-but other than that…

Whoops.

“Come on.” She leans over, links their fingers, and gives him a pull. “The notes aren’t going anywhere, I promise.”

But…

He lets her haul him out of the chair and promptly grays out. Yeah, okay, food and sleep might not be a bad idea.

“Jonathan. Jonathan! You all right, what happened?”

“Stood up too quick.” He blinks a few times and his vision starts to return. A bit. “Give me a minute.”

“I swear…” She lets go of him to facepalm and honestly, he’s feeling a little attacked right now. “Self-care’s not a weird Internet Hipster thing, y’know. It makes sure you don’t die from doing something stupid, like falling in the shower.”

“I’m not that bad off-is that my hoodie?”

“No.”

The fact that she can tell such blatant lies with a straight face is actually hilarious.

“Kitty. The sleeves are rolled up about fifty times and it’s practically at your knees.”

“It’s _oversized_ , that’s a Thing.”

“I vividly remember putting those stitches in.”

“Coincidence.”

Good-bye, hoodie. You were a loyal friend…until you weren’t, you traitorous brown bastard.

“We’ll both pretend I believe that.”

“Bed. You look like you’ve had an accident with my eyeshadow.”

* * *

Lazlo Valentin is, apparently, little the worse for wear despite it all. Jonathan’s never actually met him-Dad only said he was ‘a little odd’ (which, in hindsight, may fall under ‘pot, meet kettle’) and refused to let him near him.

But now Dad’s not here, so. Besides, how bad can the guy really be? He runs a beauty parlor, for heaven’s sake.

It’s a little traumatizing. It’s pink and opera is blaring through the speakers and the receptionist has a lot of makeup and clear signs of too much Botox.

“Kitty, is this a Thing.”

“For the fifty and up.”

Hopefully there’s no clients. He’s not sure why, but old ladies seem to gravitate towards him, fingers outstretched to pinch his cheeks.

Also, if this goes bad, witnesses would just make it worse.

“The hell.”

“Shh, relax. They’re all like this.”

This is a strange, strange world. So many bottles of nail polish on the wall-

“That’s it? Not even one bottle of blue?”

What.

“Huh?”

She gestures at said nail polish with an eye roll.

“I have more than that, this is sad.”

There are things he’s just not going to ask about, like this, and Why is it a Big Deal when two girls wear the same dress. He’ll just chalk that up to Things Man Was Not Meant to Know.

“We’re here to see Lazlo Valentin.” he says to the plastic receptionist. “Is he here?”

“Mm-hm. Got a name?”

“Jonathan Crane.” He’s not sure if that’ll get him in or get him shot at, but he’s figuring there’s a fifty-fifty chance, so…he’s feeling a little lucky. Y’know. For him.

“I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the pink, perfumed room and he’s left wondering if the lights are supposed to be flattering or if the dimness is to hide imperfections. Or bloodstains.

“So who’s this one?”

“One of Dad’s old, uh…patients. Doesn’t like pigs, I don’t know why. But I guess he’s really weird, I don’t know, I never met him.”

“Is this a good idea?”

“Probably not.”

And then they’re shown into the back. It’s a stark, rather awful contrast to the garish pink lobby-it’s dark, cold, and gives off a general vibe of ‘Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here’.

**_Take notes._ **

_Shh._

Valentin…Valentin is. He, uh.

Jonathan really doesn’t have words for the man. He’s…large. Built like the butcher in his old book of fairy tales. Looks like him, too-he’s wearing an apron has dark stains on it that Jonathan really doubts came from hair dye. His face isn’t…something’s wrong with it. Like the receptionist’s.

There might be a reason Dad didn’t want him around this guy. His whole vibe is _off._

**_Scared?_ **

_Unsettled._

**_Wuss._ **

_Maybe he makes his polishes out of human remains._

**_…shit. Time to go._ **

Valentin blinks at them, snuffles and snorts and oh, god, Jonathan wishes he could appreciate the irony here but he just _can’t_.

“Can I…heeeeelp you?”

“Yes. Yes, I think you can.” He takes a deep, hopefully calming breath and checks to make sure the path to the door is still clear. “You may remember my father. Gerald Crane?”

There’s an alarmed sucking of breath that turns to a gaspy snort. This may not have been his best idea.

“No, no, _no_.” Each word is punctuated with a flail of a thick finger. “No. We discuss something nicer, yes?” Um. “You want me to make you _perfect_. This I can do.”

Nope, thanks, he’s happy the way he is.

“Don’t change the subject-”

Valentin moves closer, fingers fluttering too close to their faces for Jonathan’s liking.

“Wrong, wrong…but I can fix. Yes. I can fix you all up.” He tries to nudge Kitty’s head up and she pulls away. “Good bone structure…both of you need…haircut…”

“That’s enough.” Only in Gotham… “You are going to do something for me, Mister Valentin. I’m not asking.” He takes a step back, dragging Kitty with him, because this is not going the way it was supposed to. “My father had a friend for you. Do you remember?” Another alarmed noise. “That friend misses you very much.” The friend is probably bacon by now, but who knows. “You are going to play a game with the police, or that friend comes to see you. You can make them…perfect.” And he does not want to know what the entails. “Is that clear?”

Valentin is silent. Jonathan’s just about to make a run for it when he nods, once and firmly.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” Hopefully next time with some armed backup. He found people to kidnap Merton, he can find people to keep Valentin in line.

They leave, and it’s only when they’re driving away that Kitty lets out a shuddery breath.

“The hell was that?”

“I have no idea.” he admits, leaning his head against the seat. “But I think he’ll keep the cops busy for us.”

THE END

 

*Restraints. Or, rather, fighting the restraints. His time in Arkham did not help.


	17. Atelophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of imperfection’, continuation of ‘Swinophobia’-because Jonathan should not have opened that box of crazy.

Willis ‘Zapper’ (shut UP, it’s a gang name, okay, all the pros have one) Mikkelson isn’t so sure this was the best idea after all.

Okay. So what _happened_ is that a really…creepy…kid in a scarecrow costume had…hired him. Seriously, that’s why he’s here, to play armed muscle to the baby psychopath.

But whatever, he’s getting paid, it’s Gotham, there’s gotta be weirder people to work for.

He could be stuck with Zsasz as a coworker. That’s gotta suck, right? Right?

Although right now, that’s not seemin’ too bad.

The guy at the door looks like an old-timey butcher, stained apron, cleaver, and all. Zapper’s tempted to slam the door and walk away, but, uh…his boss wears a scarecrow costume. So maybe this is a friend. Or whatever.

“Uh.”

The butcher snorts and snuffles and finally wheezes, “Craaaaane?”

Uh. Okay.

“Hang on.”

Crane’s off somewhere and yeah, he said do not disturb, but there’s a butcher at the door and Zapper figures that’s important.

“-no, I’m telling you, it’s the old lady, no one ever suspects the old lady.”

“Which means it’s too obvious! No. It’s the mystery man, it’s so obvious that you’ll discount it.”

“There is no mystery man, it’s a lie-”

Zapper grits his teeth and knocks on the door. The voices hush and a second later, it swings open.

“What.”

“There’s…” He swallows, which is stupid because Crane’s literally like nineteen or something but he’s _creepy_. “There’s a guy. Here. That wants to see ya, boss.”

“No.”

“He’s like this butcher guy, he’s got a knife-”

Crane’s eyebrow goes up and Zapper grimaces. You can laugh all ya want, kid’s unsettling. He doesn’t blink like normal people. He might be a vampire. Who knows.

“Looks a little plastic?”

“Uh-huh.” Blink. Please, please blink, he’s sorry for disturbing the discussion ‘n all but _bliiiiink._ “Sorry, boss, I just kinda figured-”

“It’s fine, Mister Mikkelson.” He rubs his eyes and twists around to talk to Richardson. “Kitty-”

“What now?”

“Don’t look at me.”

WHAT.

Okay. Okay. So the creepy guy at the door scares the creepy guy in here and he is not paid enough for any of this.

_Should’ve applied with Penguin. God dammit. This is what ya get for postin’ on fuckin’ Craigslist, Zaps!_

“Say we’re not here?”

“He already tracked us down.”

“Kill him.”

“It’s Gotham, he might resurrect with a grudge, look at Kean-”

_I hate my life._

“Mister Mikkelson.” He straightens up. “Go downstairs and talk to Mister Valentin. If he decides to be…pushy…shoot him.”

“Uh, okay, boss.”

He goes back downstairs, suddenly a lot more alarmed than he was earlier. The butcher-Valentin?-has come in, turned his attention to a crack in the cement wall. Zapper…doesn’t wanna talk to him. He’s clearly fine, right? Entertained.

Unfortunately, Valentin turns around and makes that weird gasping-snort again.

“No, no, no, _no_.” What. “Look at _this!_ Look-at-this.” Look at what? What’s going on? Why is this plastic butcher man looking at him like he just pissed on his mother’s ashes? “Hm. Never mind. We will fix this.”

FIX WHAT. FIX WHAT. BOSS WHERE ARE YOU THERE IS A CRAZIER MAN THAN YOU IN THE LAIR.

Zsasz is probably a great coworker.

“Uh, look man, Crane’ll be down in a minute, so uh…” He doesn’t want to shoot the guy. Nothing’s really happening yet. “Did you catch that Knights game the other night?”

The plastic butcher man inhales and moves closer, hand reaching out. Zapper takes several steps back.

“Let me see…shave. Yes, yes, the beard must go first.”

  1. He spent three months growing out this beard!



“Mister Valentin.” Oh, thank fuck. He’s never been so grateful to hear Crane. Well, except for that first day when he was starry-eyed and dumb and happy to have a job. “What brings you here?”

“Jon-aaaaa-than!” Can he go? “We must talk, yes?”

“No.” Crane sounds a little annoyed. “If I wanted to talk to you, I would have let you know, as per our arrangement.”

“It has been…weighing on my mind.” Zapper eyes the door, wonders if he can throw himself at Penguin’s feet and beg for a job. ‘Least that lot has rules. “You need…assistance.”

“I really don’t-”

“Nnnngh!” An offended squeal. “Look at this!” He gestures at…at…Zapper’s just gonna guess ‘everything’. “I cannot-I _will not_ -work with such…such…” His hands spasm. “Such _imperfections!_ ”

Uh.

Okay?

Crane sighs. He’s not in the scarecrow costume, but he’s brought the scythe down with him. That’s probably bad-Zapper’s seen him use that on some poor guy before. It’s sharp and he’s faster with it than you’d think.

He’s just gonna get out of the way.

“I’m going to give you to the count of three, Mister Valentin.” he says, voice flat. “And then I’m going to have Mister Mikkelson shoot your kneecap out.”

Uh. Okay. He’s not a great shot, but he can do his best.

He readies his shotgun and Valentin’s face twists, nose scrunching up and teeth jutting out from overly plump lips.

“No. The police are _perfect_. You must be perfect too. For your good, yes! Yes. For your good.”

“Mister Mikkelson, shoot him.”

What about the count to three?

Oh, well…

Two things happen. One, Zapper does what he’s told and squeezes the trigger. Two, Valentin moves faster than he has any business moving, meat cleaver swinging in Crane’s direction.

Richardson yanks him sideways. Zapper’s bullet misses the kneecap-he can’t hit moving targets, okay, he’s working on it!-but grazes the thigh, sending blood and a chunk of white squishy stuff spattering onto the floor. Valentin stumbles, lurches forward, and-

**SCHWING!**

The cleaver skitters across the floor, followed by the hand that was clutching it. Crane readjusts his grip on the now very bloody scythe and uses the pole to nudge Valentin onto his back. The man’s squealing in pain, clutching the gushing stump in his remaining hand.

“Boss?”

Crane ignores him, preferring instead to run a shaky hand through his hair and murmur, “Thanks.” to Richardson.

“Told you he was a nutter.” she says, but her voice is weak and her hand’s still gripping his sweatshirt.

Crane tilts his head and they both move a little closer to Valentin. Zapper wonders if he’s been lucky enough to be forgotten. Not that he’s complaining.

“Go get something to stop the bleeding, Mister Mikkelson.” Not so lucky. Damn. “As for you, Mister Valentin…I have something that’ll just make this _perfect._ ”

The last thing Zapper sees before he leaves the room is Richardson handing Crane a plastic pig’s mask.

He doesn’t even wanna know.

THE END


	18. Autophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Abromovici twins appear in Arkham City-the big guys, used to be conjoined and now are not? Them. This really does happen, by the way, in the prequel comics for Knight. (Worth it for the sheer lack of fucks given by Alfred. Dear god. GOALS.)
> 
> This one is ‘fear of being alone’. Sorry it’s up a bit later, had to run a virus scan-because if Loki gets a virus, y’all get NO stories AT ALL, and that’s bad.

Jonathan nudges one of the twitching behemoths with the pole of his scythe. Leave it to Penguin…nosey little creature, never could leave well enough alone…as though he would ever be anyone’s private chemist. And not for that price.

No matter. These two idiots have been tracking him through Gotham for the better part of two weeks. They’re not hard to avoid, and anyone with half a brain knows to keep their mouths shut about his whereabouts, but…well…it’s the _principle_ of the thing.

And so he let them find him. Even set up a little scarecrow with a mock cowl on it, in case they didn’t get the hint. And now?

Now he has to decide the best way to send a message to Cobblepot. This has to be handled with care. Penguin’s hard to rattle-his time with the mob families has made him irritatingly immune to the simple-yet-effective ‘dead henchman’, and depositing a hallucinating imbecile in his lobby isn’t much better.

Hm.

“What’re you doing?” Kitty presses up against his spine, arms winding around his stomach. “It’s been-what are _those?_ ”

“Cobblepot’s.” He pats her hands. “They’ve been sniffing around a bit too much for my liking.”

She shrugs, presses her head against his back.

“Any ideas?”

“Still thinking about it.” He twists around, notes in some despair that he has lost another shirt to the Kitty Richardson Foundation, and taps her head. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“You’ve been gone an hour.”

“You have a phone.”

“S’just a cold, it’s mostly gone.”

And she accuses him of being the bad patient. Humph.

He picks her up, ignoring the sudden wheeze of outrage, and proceeds to cart her back towards their room.

“Put me down!”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Trust is important in a relationship.” she snarks, and he snorts.

“I trust you not to poison me. I don’t trust you to go back to bed.”

“Jonathaaaaan…”

“Mister Finch, you will find two of Penguin’s employees in the front room. Confine them, I’ll be down to see them later.”

“Uh, right, boss.”

“Tell him to put me down!” Finch makes a little whimpering noise and flees the room. Kitty coughs and mutters, “I don’t like him anymore.”

* * *

Penguin’s people-known, apparently, in hench-circles as Mister Hammer and Captain Sickle-are formerly conjoined twins. Jonathan finds this decidedly interesting indeed.

He’s settled them into a pair of reinforced rooms (one of his formulas induced amazing displays of violence) while he considers what to do with them.

“Just send them back.” Kitty suggests. “Oswald can worry about the other shoe dropping for a bit until you come up with something.”

“Mm.”

“You’re the one always complaining about the amount of gore in the world.” He shrugs and leans his head against her fingers until she resumes making little circles on his scalp. “And it would get them out of here.”

“Perhaps.” He yawns and takes his glasses off, sets them on the stack of pallets serving as a table. “I am annoyed that Cobblepot sent them in the first place. If I wanted to see him, he’d know.”

“Could be worthwhile, though.”

“The last one resulted in a fractured collarbone due to a Bat infestation.”

“Fair.”

He’s pleasantly drowsy, now, and there’s something to be said for that state of mind. It can be…inspirational, being half in dreamland.

“I think I need to dose them.” he murmurs. Kitty’s fingers move to his neck. “The temporary formula, that didn’t work quite right.”

“Tomorrow.”

Yes. Tomorrow.

* * *

Twins, Jonathan has found in his (admittedly limited) studies, often share a phobia. Oh, not the boring surface phobias, but the real, deep-seated visions of horror…

It’s fascinating, really, and he’d love to know if it’s nature or nurture. One day, perhaps…but not today. Today, he has a message to send out.

He’s kept these brutes sedated. He’s had to. One-armed or not, they are capable of doing immense damage. He’s not in the mood to suffer injuries. Certainly not at the…hands…of these imbeciles.

The sedatives are wearing off now, however, and they’re making it quite clear that they _don’t like_ their rooms. They keep calling to each other, booming voices echoing down the hall. It would be irksome if it weren’t giving Jonathan some ideas.

“Thought you were going to dose them up.”

“I may.” He drapes himself over her shoulders. “I’m debating again.”

“So what happened? The, uh, separation scars look new.”

“Apparently the clown cut them apart. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. But this wasn’t voluntary, I understand.” Oh, hey, tea. If he handles this just so… “They don’t seem to be coping well like this.”

“Hm.”

It’s almost unfortunate he doesn’t speak Russian, but…he has henchmen for that. And Google translate, unreliable though it may be.

“We’ll see how this goes.” He straightens up, taking her mug with him, and starts walking away. “I think I’m going to get the tape recorder-”

“Give me back my tea.”

“What tea?” Walk faster. Long legs will carry him to relative safety. “Did you leave yours in the kitchen again?”

“That is mine, you took it from me, give it back!”

“I had this when you came down here.” There, ten feet away already! He’ll be fine. “Really, Kitty, and you accuse me of being absent-minded…”

“Really?” Uh-oh. “Give it here, I waited twenty minutes for that damn kettle-”

He takes a sip and sidesteps into his office.

“Thank you for bringing me tea, Kitty!”

Will he regret this later? Probably. Does he care? No.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Jonathan is a Good Person. Truly, he is. And to prove this, he’s going to reunite his guests…in _every_ sense of the word.

If the anesthetic happens to be laced with fear toxin, well…

He is a scientist, after all.

He-or, rather, his employees-have gotten them onto a pair of gurneys and shoved them as close together as possible. This probably won’t be permanent, but really, if they decide they’ve gotten used to being apart, well…

This is, after all, a big life step.

“Uh, boss, they’re wakin’ up.”

“I see. They’re firmly restrained, yes?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Such confidence.

“You’re quite sure?”

“Yeah, boss. They’re good.”

“Good. Now I want you to keep out of the way, but if something should go awry…you know what to do.”

Got it, boss.”

Oh, he dislikes them so…

“That scar tissue’s awfully thick.” Kitty informs him. “Getting a needle through that’s going to be rough.”

“You say that, but I’ve seen you get limbs off with less-than-ideal tools.”

“We’ll see…good morning, boys.” She reaches up and adjusts the light. “And how are we feeling?”

They blink and squirm a bit. Their predicament doesn’t seem to be registering. It will, it will, he has every confidence.

He fills a pair of syringes and grips Mister Sickle’s wrist. The big gorilla tries to thrash, can’t, and ends up bellowing something that likely consists of swear words. Perfectly normal. It’s likely the man isn’t used to not being in control. Jonathan knows the type very well.

They’re always so fun to break…

The man’s snorting like an angry bull by the time Jonathan removes the needle from his vein, but he starts screaming in English when his brother’s still-limp hand is lifted.

“Touch him and die a painful death!”

Ah, familial loyalty. Always so fascinating…

“This is for your own good, Captain Sickle.” he says softly, patting Mister Hammer’s cheek in an attempt to wake him a little more. “You’re going to be together again.”

“What.”

“Mm-hm. And then you’re going to tell Penguin that if I wanted to see him…he’d know.”

Hammer jerks away from his hand. Much better. The toxin should start to take hold very soon. Now, his camera is working…his employees are nearby in case of an incident…

“Whenever you’re ready, Kitty.”

“I think I’m going to need to cut through…you boys stay nice and still for me, all right? Wouldn’t want there to be an accident.”

Sickle is already starting to feel the effects. Interesting-they’re both about the same weight, and the injections were administered within thirty seconds of each other…oh, he really wishes he could keep them and just _observe._

“Father…please…”

Kitty reaches over for a scalpel and leans over Hammer to cut into the divot where his arm would have been.

“Yeah, I just need to butterfly it…Joker probably used a chainsaw.”

To the surprise of none, one the men near the door steps out. There’s the sound of retching. Well, now he knows who’s the first to be…fired.

The screaming starts in earnest when the skin and muscle peel apart like a cut of steak. Sickle’s pleas to the father promptly turn to desperate screams and death threats. Then they go straight back to Russian and Jonathan’s left to hope he can translate everything from the tapes.

“One of you come here and pinch these together for me-stop your crying, you didn’t want to be alone, I’m fixing it.”

Hammer is silent. Well, well, even amongst twins, the reactions are unique…and these two, what a surprise.

Penguin, he’s sure, appreciates none of this.

“No, no…do not. Do not.”

English again. Unenlightening English. He turns Sickle’s head away from his brother, provoking a new round of screaming and jerking. The restraints hold, however, and he digs his nails into the man’s cheeks.

“Now, now, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He narrowly dodges a glob of yellow spittle and that’s it, his patience is gone. He grabs a handful of straw left over from his Batman scarecrow, stalks back across the room, and beckons the remaining crew member over.

“Get his mouth open.”

“Boss?”

“Now.”

He narrowly avoids losing a finger, but the mouth is, eventually, yanked open. Quick as a flash, Jonathan stuffs the straw down Sickle’s throat and steps back.

The operation is finished in relative silence after that. All things considered, anyway.

* * *

“Boss. Boss.”

_“What?”_

Oswald breathes deeply and reminds himself that Miss Marquis has his spare e-mail passwords. Killing her could prove…problematic.

“Uh. The big ones are back. The ones you hired over from the clown?”

Finally! Where have those fools been-oh.

Oh, dear.

_Damn you, Crane!_

Crane-and it was Crane, the bile-covered straw in Sickle’s mouth is a dead giveaway-has…he’s ruined Oswald’s perfectly good help. _Ruined them._

The twins are only upright, Oswald’s sure, through sheer force of will. Other than that, they’re…well…

They’ve been restitched. Oh, it’ll be easy enough to separate them again-the stitches are, as far as he can see, more cosmetic than permanent-but…but…

All he wanted was to see about some chemicals. That’s all. And Jonathan Crane, the burlap-covered drama queen, had to overreact and _look at his goons!_ Look at them!

One day. One of these days, he’s going to behead Crane with his own scythe and spare himself the trouble.

“Call a doctor, Miss Marquis.” And now he has a headache coming on. “See about getting them apart.” There’s no answer. “Miss Marquis.”

When he looks up to see where she’s got to, she’s speed-walking out the door, face green. Lovely. He has to do everything himself, doesn’t he.

Crane is going to be very sorry once Oswald tracks him down, and that’s final.

THE END


	19. Theophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of religion/god/gods’, alternate title: ‘Silence of the Lamb (of God)’.
> 
> Given Dr. Crane’s…unfortunate…childhood, a surefire way to ensure that you do not survive your encounter with him is to bring religion into it. I’m telling you now, for your own safety, PRAY IN YOUR HEAD, NOT WITH YOUR MOUTH. Trust me, even if Batman shows up at that exact second, he’ll just shoot you rather than let you walk away.
> 
> Recommended listening: Barnes Courtney’s ‘Hellfire’.

It’s a handy little bit of knowledge that the Scarecrow, for whatever reason, has zero patience for prayers if one is unfortunate enough to get caught up in one of his schemes. Nobody knows why and quite frankly, nobody cares. All they care about is ‘don’t do it and you might not die’.

Mary Macintosh is not a native Gothamite, and doesn’t know any better.

So when her trip to the bank is interrupted by a man with a potato sack on his head and a scythe in his hand, she does what she’s always done in times of stress-she gets down on her knees and prays for God to help her. If yes, praise the Lord. If no, the Lord works in mysterious ways. That’s the way it works.

But not this time. This time she’s barely gotten out an ‘our father’ when the man snaps around, limbs swiveling and locking like a child’s toy, and closes the distance between them in three long steps.

**_“What did you say.”_ **

She can’t answer. Her throat has swollen shut because he’s _right there_ and _what does he want with her?_

Long fingers grasp her collar, dislodging the cross there, and the burlap head tilts to the right with an unsettling _crack!_ before he shoves her back onto the floor.

 ** _“We’re taking this one.”_** he tosses over his shoulder. **_“Now…where was I?”_**

* * *

Call him petty, but Jonathan has always enjoyed utterly shattering people’s belief in a higher power.

What? It’s ridiculous. He spent his entire childhood-if one could call that hellish time a _childhood_ -being punished for other people’s so-called sins, and no God, no merciful Christ, _no one_ came for him.

As a rational adult, he can look back and say, _of course not, because they’re not real_ , but as a seven-year-old boy…

Well. There had been some deep feelings of confused betrayal.

But no matter! He knows better, now, and it’s about time that others were dragged kicking and screaming out of their happy delusions.

And if Kitty had tugged him down for a kiss and breathed, “When you’re done, if you _really_ want to cement your spot in Hell…”

Ah, incentives. Today is going to be a good day.

The poor little fool’s driver’s license informs him that her name is Mary Macintosh, originally from Metropolis, aged twenty-four. Probably not used to being out on her own, given her age, and certainly not used to being out on her own in Gotham.

She’ll never get the chance.

He had his men lock her in the empty broom closet downstairs for the time being while he got himself a cup of tea and calmed down, but she’s been there for about three hours now and that’s plenty of time to wait.

She’s huddled in the back of the closet, crying softly, when he opens the door. Pathetic. She’s old enough to be past that base response, surely. He was over it by thirteen, for heaven’s sake, and he was subject to far more traumatizing things than being shut into a closet.

“Get up.”

She doesn’t move and he sighs, reaches in and drags her out by the arm. She’s not even trying to fight him and really? Really? You can always, _always_ spot the transplants-the locals at least have enough self-respect to tell you to fuck off.

He’s not sure which is more irksome; the crying, or the swearing.

“Please…I don’t know what you want-”

“Do you know who I am, Miss Macintosh?” She shakes her head and he represses a sigh. “My name is Jonathan Crane, child, though the papers usually refer to me as the Scarecrow.” She blinks at him with wide, confused eyes. Why is she here. “Do you know what Gotham is famous for?”

She shrugs and _she’s going to say something if it kills her!_

He hauls her to a chair and cuffs her to it.

“The longer I wait for an answer, the more irritated I’m going to get.”

There’s a bit of sniffling, and gulping, and finally a soft, “Th-the costumed…people.”

Good enough.

“Very good. See? You’re not a complete fool. Now. When we met earlier, you made a mistake. Do you know what that was?” She shakes her head. That’s to be expected. “It’ll come to you, I’m sure.”

He falls silent after that, rifling through a handful of vials before deciding that yes, he wants to go with the most unpleasant one he’s got. (As though there was ever really any doubt, but…)

“Y-y-you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s a funny thing, my dear… ** _I really do_**.”

_We agreed. This one’s mine._

**_I just wanted to get a look! I’m not impressed, Jonny, she’s already hyperventilating over there. Sheesh._ **

Scarecrow has a point.

He plucks the correct vial from its case and brings it over. Anticipation, he’s found, really ramps up the reaction. Especially because this one doesn’t seem to realize what’s in store.

He takes his time holding the vial and the syringe up to the light, transferring the liquid and tapping out the air bubbles. This particular batch has an odd yellow sheen-probably a side effect of the cockroaches that have amplified the flower’s potency-and he’s well aware that the sight of it is…unsettling.

“What is that?”

“Hell in a needle, child, Hell in a needle.”

She starts crying again in earnest and slumps forward, cross hanging at such an angle that it catches the light. He’s tempted to rip it off and hurl it straight into the dustbin, but he refrains. Better, really, to tilt her head to the left and press the tip of the needle against the blue vein that makes itself visible.

“Please…”

“Try asking God to help you. See what happens.”

She opens her mouth, probably to do exactly that, and he injects the full dose. This batch _hurts_ , like a bad flu shot, and the shock of it makes her gasp and say nothing.

Excellent.

“God isn’t going to help you, child.” he says, withdrawing the syringe and returning to his work table to fetch a notebook. “He isn’t coming. I speak from _very_ personal experience in this department.”

“Th-the Lord works in-”

He holds up a finger, scribbles down the time.

“Shh. Deep breaths, makes that work a little faster.”

“What did you give me?”

“You’ll see.” It’s been a long time since he’s had such a naive subject. Everyone knows what they’re in for, now, they know what to expect. Again, the anticipation helps, but with this one there’s _doubt_ , and it’s been _such a long time_ …

Her lips start moving but no sound comes out. He’s not sure whether he’s disappointed or relieved.

He can see the exact moment the toxin starts to take effect-her pupils shrink and her hands clutch at the chair. Her breathing changes, too-tightens up, an involuntary reaction to an increased pulse.

“They tell me the Devil can quote scripture.” he says, circling the chair and leaning over her. She’s staring off into the corner, swallowing desperately and shaking her head. “I suppose that’s true. Isn’t it Matthew who says, ‘And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you’?”

She swallows again. Still no sound, and that is _irritating_ because oh, she was so _willing_ to make noise earlier!

**_“Answer me!”_ **

“Th-the light of God surrounds me…”

Oh, really?

Not for long.

He clicks off the light. It’s a little darker than he’d like, but a side effect of being practically nocturnal means he has better night vision than most, glasses or no. It garners a response, too-a short, sharp scream and a whimpered, “Please-”

“He’s not coming, Mary. You know this by now, don’t you?” Her breathing grows louder and he leans forward, forces her face away from the dark corner. “Go on, child. Admit it.”

Her face is wet and sticky from tears and mucus and he makes a mental note to _thoroughly_ disinfect once he’s done here.

She doesn’t admit it. Not yet. But she does start to scream in earnest, and it’s telling, he thinks, that her screams are not for any imaginary savior, but for her father.

“He’s not coming either, Mary. You’re alone. Forsaken.” Scarecrow squirms and pulls himself up for a moment, grinning. **_“Hail Mary, full of disgrace, the Lord has abandoned you.”_** *

Her head starts to slump and he lets go of it, wipes his hand with a grimace.

“Tell me, child…where is your precious savior now?”

The only answer he gets is a wordless scream.

THE END

 

*Can’t take credit for that, sadly-that is borrowed from Stephen King’s _Kingdom Hospital._


	20. Bogeyphobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of the boogeyman’. Recommended listening: Elle King’s ‘Ain’t Gonna Drown’.
> 
> Some nice soul on YouTube uploaded Boris Karloff’s narration of 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow', which is exciting! (Boris Karloff, y’all…yes.) I’m still seeing if I can scrounge up Joanna Galdone’s narration of 'The Tailypo'-I swear it’s her voice I hear for Granny Keeny.
> 
> Sorry this is late again-my mum’s unwell and I’ve been…a bit busy.

Gotham doesn’t have a boogeyman legend anymore. Oh, there’s a few old folktales that have lingered-the Goat, for instance-but that’s been so wrapped up in real-life murders that it hardly counts.

No, these days they’ve got real monsters. Parents warn their children to go to sleep or the Joker will get them. Eat your vegetables or Croc will eat you. The kids down in Crime Alley swap stories of the Dumbass that touched the Batmobile and was never seen again, and the college students joke-but-don’t about the bubbly blonde substitute psych prof that…wasn’t the sub.*

Rodney Wilson knows he shouldn’t be out this late on a school night, but his parents are fighting again and he just…he can’t, okay? The walls are too thin to drown anything out and he just can’t _listen_ to them anymore. It’s not like he’s far, just a couple blocks away from the building, in the little park. They won’t notice. They never notice. He’ll go back in another hour or so, when they’ve had time to yell it out, and everything’ll be fine.

He plops onto a park bench, notices he’s got new _Candy Crush_ lives, and opens the app. S’dark out here, kinda cold. Quiet. Nobody ever comes to this park, and usually that’s okay because there’s no druggies or anything, but tonight…

It’s spooky, tonight. Fall’s just starting to settle in, the cool breeze carrying more of a bite than usual. It’s darker than it should be-one of the signs that he can usually see is out. Probably got slammed into-Man-Bat was out earlier this week. There’s always some costumed freak out anymore.

…

Maybe he should go home and just try to tune it out. Maybe a neighbor’ll let him stay with them.

Nah. He’s been comin’ out here for months now and nothin’s ever happened. He knows the drill-stay aware, don’t talk to strangers, if someone gets too close, punch first and ask questions later.

“You know it’s not safe to be out after dark.” a voice murmurs from directly behind him. He jumps and stands up, takes several steps backwards. It’s a man, a tall, skinny man with glasses.

“Whatcha want, man?”

“Concerned citizen.” the man says smoothly, and Rodney calls bullshit. Concerned citizens don’t exist in Gotham. “Most people know better than to wander around alone at night.”

“Yeah, well, I’m waitin’ for a friend.” He eyes the road. “Think I’ll go wait down there. Bye.”

“I do hope you won’t have to wait long. Good night.”

Uh. This is probably bad.

The man moves on down the dark path, vanishing a few steps in. Yeah, Rodney’s gonna go home. Right now.

He’s barely reached the streetlights-dim and shitty though they are-when the man appears in front of him, glasses shiny enough to hide his eyes.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you to behave or the boogeyman would get you?”

“I don’t want any trouble, dude, just-”

The man moves closer, hands lax at his sides, and Rodney opens his phone, prepares to dial 911.

“They really should have, if they didn’t.”

His thumb hits the _nine._ The man’s arm starts to come up and then-and then!-a gaggle of drunks amble down the park path behind them. Rodney half-turns in case they’re in on this, and when he turns back to the street, the man’s gone like he’d never been there at all.

Sitting on the cement where he’d been standing, however, is a piece of straw.

THE END

 

*Things were going well until the SWAT team burst in through the window, to be fair.


	21. Doxophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of expressing opinions/receiving praise’. I was looking for ‘fear of being thanked’ but Google came up blank, so this is the closest I could come. I was amused. I needed amusement. TAKE IT.
> 
> A few of these stories have a ‘recommended listening’, so at the end, I will compile them into an 8tracks playlist-the link will be on my profile, so stay (heh) tuned!

Nurse Collins hates the night shift.

She didn’t used to, you know. Gotham being Gotham, the night shift was busy, but not…not this way. This is Batman’s fault. He came and he dragged all these masked crazies out of whatever dark corners they were hiding in, and now…now.

Now, for instance, Crane’s dragged Richardson in for a gunshot wound. It depends on which one of them you ask as to how serious it is, but either way, the bullet had to be removed, so.

They’re leaving in a few minutes, partly because they can and partly because nobody’s stupid enough to suggest an overnight even if they couldn’t. She’s drawn the short straw of going in there for a last-minute chat, and she…

She doesn’t wanna. Last time they were here, Crane was in bad shape and the doctor on duty retired. Said something about too much pressure.

“-worry too much, really.”

“I worry exactly the right amount. There comes a point that I’m not willing to risk nicking something trying to get a bullet out.”

“For heaven’s sake-”

Time to get this over with.

She knocks on the door and opens it a second later, prepared to duck ‘n run if they decide they’re not done arguing.

“Nurse…” Crane’s eyes find her name tag. “Collins. What do you want?”

“Um.” Be calm. Be calm. “I have painkillers and recovery instructions…for, um…if you want them…”

“Blink, love, you’re scaring her.” Crane does not blink. Maybe he can’t. Richardson sighs and holds out her hand. “Thank you for this. And for putting up with him.”

 _That_ knocks him right out of his ‘scary graveyard statue’ mode-gets a sputter and an indignant, “Who spent our last stay playing with syringes?”

“I was fixing your glove, which you never do.”

“Mm-hm.” Nurse Collins wants to run far, far away before they remember that they kill people and take her out to keep her from ruining their image or something. “The fact that you only worked on it in front of Doctor…I don’t remember his name, actually…is a coincidence, of course.”

“I was trying to stay out of his way!”

“Naturally.” Crane flicks his attention back to her and she wants to disappear. “Thank you, Nurse, for ensuring this stay has not lasted longer than necessary.”

She tries to smile. It’s in the training, smile at the patients, up their moods.

She just.

She can’t.

She shoves the paper and pill bottle at them and scurries out with what she means to be a, “I’ve got other patients, come back if you have complications!” but what probably comes out as incomprehensible gibberish.

What? The last thing she wants or needs is them requesting her next time they come in.

THE END


	22. Pyrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of fire’. Recommended listening: ‘Arsonist’s Lullaby’ from Hozier.

You know, it’s a funny, funny thing, that despite all the little jokes I hear about scarecrows and fire, I don’t suffer that particular phobia.

I don’t know why they think I should. Do they think it’s clever? Is it _from_ something? I don’t really care, but it grows old.

It’s funny, really. I should, by all rights, have a healthy fear of the stuff. Unfortunate childhood incident, I’m afraid-I still have the scar, just here. Matches burn surprisingly hot, you’d be surprised. I remember it like it was yesterday…hot Arlen sunshine, only just tempered by a sycamore tree…the house would have been cooler, I know, but the risks…

It was a productive day despite it all. Miggs was too stupid to be frightened, as boys that age often are-he’d never learned to fear anything. But the other…Rogers…I remember. Miggs got a bit too close with that match. He didn’t like that at all.

It pays to be observant, you know.

I’m not ill-acquainted with setting a fire. I couldn’t afford to be-once or twice we had a case of rabies on the property-squirrels, if I remember right, Arlen always has to be the odd one out for that sort of thing-and Granny would insist we burn the remains, and after that she’d make me burn the remains of anything she caught in a trap-mice and such. To this day I’m not sure if it was a health concern or if she just wanted to make me squirm…but I digress.

It’s not difficult, to set a fire. Risky, a little, but if you’re quick, like I am…really, it’s their own fault. I learned to be quick, to outrun them.

Well, after Granny died, when nobody came looking, I remembered Rogers’ little…upset. I hadn’t thought about it for years, but now, now that I could come and go as I pleased…

I chalk it up, personally, to an abundance of freedom. You see it all the time in students living alone for the first time. Regardless, it wasn’t at all difficult to let myself into his room one afternoon and start a small, very small, fire.

Under his bed, of course. Couldn’t risk it being noticed immediately.

Don’t look at me like that, it’s ridiculous. The brat didn’t die, anyhow. Received a few nasty burns though…paralyzed through terror, I understand. His father had to carry him out. Most excitement that town had had all year…quiet place, as I’m sure you’re aware of by now.

I always have wondered, a little, if that incident cured his phobia or worsened it. Perhaps I’ll find out next time I’m back. In the interests of catching up and all.

THE END


	23. Hydrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically this one’s ‘fear of water’, but as those of you who had to read Old Yeller in fourth grade know…it’s an old name for rabies. Sorry, Little Crane.

It’s Jonathan’s first time driving them anywhere that’s not ‘mailbox’ and it’s possibly the most stressful time of his life.

Fingers white on the clutch and the wheel, eyes open as wide as they’ll go, he does his best to ignore the judgmental old crone sitting ramrod-straight in the passenger seat.

He’s fourteen and they need to actually come into town proper. That’s his only consolation at this point. She can’t do anything to him in town-too many witnesses-and he’s driving because her arthritis is acting up, so she probably won’t do anything to him when they get home.

Not that that’s any reason to invite trouble.

“Slow down, Jonathan.”

“S-sorry, Granny.”

They arrive without injury, and the second Granny’s not looking he slumps back. He’s going to be gray by the time he’s eighteen, if he lives that long.

He spots Blue, the Smiths’ hound dog, and feels a little happy for the first time today. Stupid name aside, the dog’s friendly, always has a wag and a dopey smile for him.

Granny’s exchanging barb-laden small talk with Old Mrs. Marlowe and really, he should stick around because the sheer level of hidden insults from both sides is…astounding…but Mrs. Marlowe hates him and he’s just gonna…not.

Blue’s flopped behind a shady building. Prob’ly been here for a bit, judgin’ by the comfy-dog-sprawl.

“Hey, Blue.” No response. He eyes the whiteness on the dog’s muzzle and factors in hearing loss-s’been a few months. “How’re you doin’, old boy?” The dog opens one rheumy eye and it’s _hot_ , maybe he needs a drink. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

The grocer always lets him use the faucet whenever he’s in town, and he grabs a plastic cup and fills it up.

Blue hasn’t budged when he gets back and he crouches down, pitches his voice a little louder and says, “Blue. Gotcha water, c’mon.”

It’s reflexes that save him. He’s reaching over with the cup when the dog’s head comes up _fast_ , teeth snapping at his fingers, and he drops the plastic and scrambles back.

“Blue, s’just me!”

Blue gets up, swayin’ and not lookin’ right _at all_ , and Jonathan takes several steps away. The dog follows, head down and saliva drippin’ into the dust ‘round his paws.

Somethin’s wrong.

For the first time in his life-‘least that he can remember-his first thought is to go to Granny. Blue stumbles and he turns and walks quickly towards the black parasol, listening to the heavy panting grow fainter.

“Granny?”

“Not now, child-”

“Something’s wrong with the Smith’s dog.”

“Why should I ca-”

She finally turns around, probably to grab his wrist with the promise of punishment later, and goes white.

“Go inside. Right now.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t argue with me, Jonathan.”

He follows her inside, confused as he’s ever been, and a second later there’s a gunshot.

THE END


	24. Philophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of love’, which-and I’m sorry-is the dumbest phobia ever. No. Recommended listening: Ludo’s ‘The Horror of Our Love’.
> 
> Anyways, I was rewatching Jurassic Park and got this…somehow…and another one-shot involving Killer Croc, a trashed Iceberg Lounge, Robin trying not to die, and Dove Marquis wishing the Boss hadn’t gone out of town today. (On the subject of JP, nowhere in that film does Grant look as terrified as he does when confronted with an eight-year-old who puked in the jeep. He and Batman should talk.)

Arkham’s interview room is stark, gleaming white, with two chairs (brought in), three small cameras (mounted high on the walls, too high to reach without a ladder) and absolutely _nothing_ else. The escape risk-the _death_ risk-is too high here. The glass is thick, though if one looks very, very closely, one might see hairline cracks from where Waylon Jones hurled himself against it.

Caroline Davis is looking at the monitors the cameras feed to, trying to get a feel for the interviewees. They’re just sitting there, not speaking, looking steadily back. It’s ridiculous, she knows, the blurry figures don’t _know_ she’s there, but…

_That’s what they do, they frighten people. Don’t. Be. Frightened._

“You ready, Miss Davis?”

Like she’s got a choice, huh. She wants credit for class, she’s gotta buck up and talk to them.

“I’m ready.”

“They can’t get to you. You need me, I’ll be right down the hall, just shout.”

She nods, forces a smile, and follows the orderly-Barney, his name tag says-down the hall and to the solitary chair in front of the thick glass.

The people in the room are watching the hallway and maybe…maybe they did know she was watching them. No, no, they got lucky, they heard a door open, something.

Barney pats her shoulder and leaves, and she’s quite literally Alone with the Psychos.

They stare at her, unblinking and unmoving, and she plasters on a smile that feels faker ‘n Gramma’s front teeth.

“Uh, hi. I’m Caroline Davis, I’m getting my Master’s in Criminal Psychology at Gotham U-”

“We know.” Jonathan Crane’s voice is dead leaves and snake skins. “Come to write a paper.” Bright blue eyes, sharpened by his glasses, look her up and down. She wills herself to relax. Be calm. He doesn’t _really_ feed on fear like her nine-year-old nephew insists, but…can’t be too careful, right? “Sit down, Miss Davis.”

She sits, risks doing a little looking of her own.

She’s never seen either of them up close, but she has seen their old yearbook photos-the library has a copy of every book since the school’s opening, and she’d tried to be a little prepared. They haven’t changed much since those black and white pictures were taken.

Crane is sitting stiffly, jaw tight, hair less tidy than it had been in that picture. She’s guessing Batman-related injuries-they’d both been brought in a few weeks prior, much to her relief (she’d booked this in _April!_ ), a little the worse for wear.

Serves him right.

“You’ve got questions, haven’t you?”

Kitty Richardson is a little less stiff, but her wrist’s in a cast that’s been decorated with card suits. She’s curled her ankles around the legs of the chair and if Caroline pauses and ignores the headlines flashing behind her eyelids ( _DOZENS DEAD, POISONED ACETONE TO BLAME_ ), she can see the twenty-year-old girl grinning out of those back pages.

“Yes. I-if it’s not a bother?”

They blink then, slow and lazy and catlike, and she wonders if they do this on purpose.

Probably.

“Well, well.” Crane tilts his head too far sideways, the muscles in his neck tensing. Judging from Richardson’s expression, there was a _crack_. He straightens up and adjusts his glasses. “Aren’t you polite. Look, Kitty, one with _manners_.”

“Mm-hm.” Richardson drapes her uninjured arm over the back of the chair. “Her mother did a good job.”

Breathe. Breathe. It’s fine, they’re not trying to pry out any insecurities or her address or anything. They’re just sitting there, not acting overly resentful that she needs them for her paper.

That’s somehow worse. She met one of Crane’s old interns, who apparently still has work-related anxiety. She came here expecting…worse.

Okay. Okay. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all.

She gets out her notebook-the most professional one she’s got, even if it does have ‘make life your bitch’ scrawled on the inside cover in her best friend’s handwriting.

“H-how are you?”

Richardson smiles. It’s nothing like the yearbook, but it’s genuine all the same.

“A word of advice, dear-put your shoulders back-there. Anything less than confidence will get you killed in this town.”

“Overconfidence gets you killed, too.” Richardson nudges his ankle and throws him a dirty look. He uncoils a little, slouching a tiny bit against his chair. “What? It’s true.”

“It’s different for women.”

“Fair enough.” He rolls his wrists and earns himself another ankle nudge. “It’s not my fault I need things to crack.”

“You know it creeps me out!”

“Added bonus.” Richardson raises a finger and presses her thumb against her knuckle. Crane raises one eyebrow. “You’ll run out of crackable joints before I do.”

“You don’t like it, either!”

Caroline’s one, slightly hysterical thought is, _so they’re the world’s pettiest joint-crackers?_

“No, but I can cope until you run out, seeing as you’re one short on top of everything else.” Richardson cracks another knuckle. Crane makes a face, pops his neck again, and turns his attention to Caroline. “Are you going to ask anything, or are you going to sit there and observe us as though you’re visiting a zoo?”

“I didn’t…” Her voice trails off without permission and she swallows, raises it back up. “Want to interrupt.” She swallows, clicks her pen to readiness. “This last Halloween, with the fog juice…”

“Nobody appreciates that formula.” Crane grumbles, expression hilariously put-upon. “It took _work_ to perfect that formula.”

She has no idea what to say to that, and figures it’s best to soldier on.

“What inspired you?”

“Well, well.” He stands up a lot faster than she would have expected and _holy shit he’s tall_. “No questions about childhood trauma, no silly theories about…deviancy…you’ve done your homework, haven’t you, child?” Why is he so close to the glass. And why is Richardson fiddling with her cast. “I’m impressed.”

He presses one spidery hand to the glass and at first Caroline wants to blame her paranoia for the hairline cracks that spread out from under it. But he smiles at her, close-lipped and…indulgent.

“You think this glass will protect you from us, don’t you.” he says, leaning his weight against his hand. The cracks (no cracks, she’s imagining them) spread. “You _know_ we can’t get to you because this glass is built to withstand _monsters_ , and that knowledge is keeping your fear in check.” What is Richardson doing why does she suddenly have an extra finger _what’s happening?_ “Even if we do get out, you’re being monitored. Someone will come for you. Isn’t that right?” She’s silent and he suddenly **slams** his hand against the glass, making the cracks become a _lot_ more pronounced. **_“I asked you a question, Caroline.”_**

She nods, frantic, and the tension bleeds out of him. Richardson stands up. She’s got something in her hand that Caroline _knows_ she didn’t have before.

“The cameras are on a loop.” Crane says softly, plucking the small thing from Richardson’s hand and turning away from the glass, towards the door. “All anyone watching sees is you, sitting quietly in that chair there, and us, sitting quietly in these chairs here.”

Caroline stands up, intending to run and scream for Barney, and Richardson shakes her head.

“Door’s locked, and Barney’s got a _splitting_ headache.” she says, and _now_ the grin matches the yearbook. “You know, though, the glass does protect you from us.” She turns around, walks towards the door. “That’s what lock picks are for.”

The door opens and they disappear through it. Caroline’s just about to thank her lucky stars-this is an escape, that’s all, she’ll be fine-when, down the hall, there’s a _creeaak._

**_“There’s nowhere to run, Caroline.”_ **

She runs anyway.

They catch her right before she reaches the door.

THE END


	25. Eremophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of loneliness’.
> 
> Abigail’s ultimate fate can be found in Phobias, under ‘Crawler’.

Abigail Miggs is expecting to wake up in a dark room, or at least in a room with one single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Isn’t that how it goes? Strange men invade your house and knock out, you end up somewhere…unpleasant.

She is wrong. She wakes, instead, in her own bedroom. She’s not that badly hurt-her nails are broken, and there’s a bump on her head, but there’s no other bruises or scratches or fluids. She doesn’t even feel that bad-frightened, and a little woozy, but that’s all. What the hell happened?

She remembers snatches-she’d been ready to leave, had opened the door and been bowled over by a big man. She’d…she’d clawed, she remembered, gone for the eyes, and then had turned to run. He’d grabbed her-her nails had broken trying to grab something to hit with-and then there’d been pain.

What did he want?

She gets out of bed and goes, first, to the window. It’s been nailed shut and no amount of effort will get it open. The door, however, is unlocked.

That ugly thing from _Star Wars_ sounds in her mind, _it’s a trap!_ , but she pokes her head into the hall anyway. Nothing happens and she risks putting a foot out.

Still nothing. She ducks back in, crams her feet into her slippers, and scurries down the hall. Maybe she’ll be lucky, maybe this is some sloppy criminal-

The door’s barricaded off with a wardrobe she had to hire people to move. Okay. Okay, she can work around this. She’ll check the windows, and then she’ll try to topple it. She’s got this. Nobody else seems to be here, she’s gonna be fine.

Something crackles above her and she tilts her head up to see a black box with a cord running down. Speaker?

“Good morning, Abigail.” She shudders. That voice sounds like dead leaves. “You’ll find a ready-made ice pack for that lump on your head.”

“I don’t have any money-”

“I know you don’t.” the voice says shortly. “I know everything. Abigail Miggs, thirty-two, lives alone, few friends, no close family, works from home.” No. No, no. “Vegetarian, spends most of her evenings club-hopping to avoid having to sit in an empty house-”

“Stop it!”

The voice does, indeed, stop. For a moment.

“I’d go put that ice on, Abigail. That bump looks painful.”

She ignores the voice and instead strides to the living room-only to see several large nails sticking out of the front window. She turns, frantically, and sees the same nails protruding from the little window.

Okay. Okay, surely not all the windows are nailed shut. That’s just silly. These are the obvious ones, that’s all, there’s…the bathroom! This house is old, that’s why there’s a window in there-most people are surprised to find it, especially since she crammed a shelf in front of it. Creeped her out, frosted glass or no.

“The _ice_ , Abigail.” The voice sounds irked now. “In the kitchen.”

Fuck that. She’s getting out of here.

She locks the bathroom door behind her and pulls the shelving unit to the side, knocking down lotion and baby powder on the way. Okay, it’ll be a tight squeeze, but she can do it.

She clambers on top of the toilet, feels the lid wobble a little, and looks down to make sure she won’t fall and die.

When she looks up, it’s to the same long nails sticking out like grinning teeth.

“No!” She rips at the nails and only ends up gouging her hands. “No! No!”

The white walls loom in around her and the lid wobbles again. She nearly loses her footing this time and half-falls to the ground, gripping the sink with her gouged hands.

_Get up._

The wardrobe. She can bring that down, she _has_ to bring that down.

She bursts from the bathroom, heart thrumming in her ears, and marches towards it. She’s gotta get outta here, she’s _gonna_ get outta here.

“What are you doing, Abigail.” the voice hisses from the speaker. “You’re not leaving.”

Fuck you, buddy.

She cracks her knuckles, which hurts but too bad, and gets her hands between the wardrobe and the door. The wardrobe wobbles, a little, but it does move.

“It is mounted to the wall, Abigail.” the speakers inform her exasperatedly. “Now stop acting like a child.”

She looks up. It is indeed attached, the canvas strap held firmly in place with a thick screw.

She breaks down sobbing and finally shuffles to the kitchen for the ice.

* * *

The speakers have been silent for two days. She’s spent those two days wandering around the house, tugging at the wardrobe and the nails and considering shattering the windows. She found her phone and her tablet shattered in the bathtub that first day, and when she tried to turn on the TV, it wouldn’t go and wouldn’t go and she finally found that the innards had been removed.

She’d cried again then.

“What do you want?” she screams at the speaker. “What do you want with me?”

It remains silent. She climbs up there and hits it. That only makes it shake on the wall-no voice comes from it. She screams at it, a wordless screech that hurts her throat, and tries to rip it off the wall.

She only falls off the wobbly side table and bruises her tailbone.

“Really.” The speaker sounds decidedly unamused, but _it responded!_ “I am…disappointed, Abigail.”

“Then let me out!”

“Absolutely not. You’ll hurt yourself.” She struggles up, grasps the wires, and yanks. There’s a deep **blip** and then nothing.

For about ten seconds. Then there’s a faint sigh from the other room and an irritated, “You’re not helping your case, Abigail.”

“Fuck you!”

She sprints into the other room, snatching a candlestick off the side table on the way, and stares at the black box sitting innocuously over the mantel.

“What do you want from me? What do you want? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

Silence. She hurls the candlestick at it and yanks out the wires. Then, because fuck everything, she storms off to do the same to the others.

* * *

Come morning, Abigail is regretting destroying the speakers. She should have played along, maybe garnered enough sympathy to get out, or…or something.

She shuffles to the silent kitchen, eyes turned away from the ugly nails protruding from the window, and takes down the steadily-dwindling box of tea. Surely the postman will notice something weird, right? Eventually? Before she starves?

“Good morning, Abigail.”

She screams and drops the box on the floor, paper packets skittering across the linoleum.

The kitchen speaker is exactly the same as it was yesterday morning. Is she snapping from the stress? She’s gotta be snapping from the stress.

She reaches towards the wires. They’re cold and unbroken, hanging innocuously against the wall.

“Break them again and there will be consequences.”

“I’m sorry.” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Silence. Then, “Have your tea, Abigail.”

She can’t even cry anymore. Her head hurts and she just…what the hell is the point of this?

Fuck this. Fuck the speakers and the nails and her dwindling box of tea. She’s not going to be a-a _lab rat_ or whatever the hell is going on!

She yanks a drawer open and rummages around until she comes up with a cleaver*. The speakers radiate irritation.

“What are you doing, Abigail.”

She ignores it and heads to the bathroom. The water still works, she knows because she finally plucked up the courage to take a shower the other night.

“Abigail. **_What are you doing._** ”

She throws open the bathroom door, throws a middle finger towards the speaker in the hall, and parks her ass in the bathtub.

Her hand is just reaching for the knobs when the speaker crackles and the voice says, “Come to the basement, Abigail.”

“Why.”

“I think you’re ready for answers. Are you not?”

She’s got the cleaver. The basement door has been locked since the beginning, but it’s not like she bothered too much-there’s no way out of the house down there. Just spiders.

If this is some sort of survival game, she’s here to win, as a Fuck You to the asshole who set it up.

“Fine.”

She clambers back out of the tub, banging her shins against the porcelain on the way, and adjusts her grip on the cleaver. It’s heavy, and she’s only used it once or twice on Thanksgiving, but the blade feels snug in the wood and if it comes down to it…if she really needs to use it…

The basement door is cracked open now and for a minute she wonders if she’s missed that this whole time, imagined it being closed, but no. No. She didn’t crack that fast.

It’s dark down there. She doesn’t go down there if she can help it, but now…she can’t help it. This could all be over soon.

She pushes at the door and it swings open with a soft _creeaak._ The light from the hall makes it down three stairs before being swallowed up.

Okay. Okay. She can do this.

She tightens her grip on the handle, puts her free hand out for the railing, and starts down. It’s silent down here, same as it is upstairs, and maybe…maybe this is a mistake.

_Click._

Her feet have just touched the dirt floor when the single light bulb turns on. It makes it so she can see the shadow of a man, just outside the circle of light.

_How long has he been here._

He isn’t alone. As her eyes adjust, she can make out other shadows, shifting and shuffling closer. Behind her, the basement door…shuts.

The first man, the tall, thin one, steps into the light. His face is burlap.

_NO._

**_“Come here, Abigail.”_ **

She tries to run and one of the other shadows, a giant one, lunges for her. She slashes at it with the cleaver and it grabs her wrist with a meaty hand, squeezes and twists until the cleaver falls to the ground and is kicked away.

“No! Let go! Let go of me!”

 ** _“The table.”_** the Scarecrow hisses, and she’s hefted up and carried, still shrieking, away from the light.

“What do you want!”

 ** _“You’ll see.”_** The burlap face, barely visible, leans over her. **_“Deep breaths…it’s time for stage two.”_**

THE END

 

*I read, as a kid, a ghost story called _Jade Green_ (if memory serves…), and the backstory for that ghost was that she lopped off her hand with a meat cleaver. On purpose. I recall being a little unsettled by that book, might be worth hunting up.


	26. Hormephobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of shock’.
> 
> So I’m trawling through some hurt/comfort prompt list for fun, and I see ‘serial killers’ and I just…well…this is a no-go, because these idiots are the serial killers. But not entirely during this one-shot, they still work at Arkham and have to behave.

Kitty’s easy to startle. Jonathan knows, of course, that he shouldn’t take advantage of this, but, well…

Look. There may or may not be a reason people go on dates to scary movies. The clutching, the little gasps of surprise, the fact that people who go through a frightening experience together have a closer relationship…

It’s practical, when you think about it. And on a baser level, the fear response-the _light_ fear response, not the true ‘my life is in danger’ fear response-has…similarities…to other, not-frightening things. He wonders how many children can trace their conception back to the premiere date of _The Silence of the Lambs_ or some such film.

(He’s about eighty percent certain he can trace himself back to _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ , which probably should have been taken as an omen. Oh, well.)

Regardless, Kitty really _is_ easy to startle and he’s gotten it down to a science-the science of avoiding bodily harm and gaining maximum amusement.

The first time was a hand-to-heart accident, brought about by over a decade of moving _silently_ through a creaky mansion. He’d come home from class a little later than usual-traffic-and had honestly just leaned over the couch to see if she’d fallen asleep like she had the last time he’d been late. Unfortunately, she’d been watching a rerun of _The X-Files_ , and he’d gotten a screech and a pillow to the face for his troubles.

Oops.

All the same, the result had been hilarious-pillow aside-and…well…

All right, so he’s got faults. Other people murder their girlfriends and dump their corpses in the sewers for Croc, so really, he may as well have a halo.

Their current apartment has a mirrored medicine cabinet. He has, for the entire six months that they’ve lived here, not taken advantage of this fact. Mostly it’s because he’s tired (he has one patient that he just…look, he tries to be understanding, but if this one choked on his pills and died, Jonathan might throw a small office party), but partly it’s because he’s _trying_ to be a Good Person.

And yeah, okay, he hasn’t had an appropriate opportunity. Most of the time she’s using the mirror while he’s in the shower and thus unable to do anything.

But not today! Today (well, tonight) fate has gifted him with an opportunity.

Arkham needs money. Arkham always needs money. Considering they house an unreasonable amount of creative murderers (Mr. Zsasz, _put that spoon down NOW_ ), the city resents giving them anything. Jonathan’s tempted, at times, to let a breakout happen, as punishment. But. No matter. They need money, and so they are having a fundraiser.

Kitty’s doing something time-consuming with her hair, which means she’s in front of the mirror for longer than usual. Now, if he’s careful…

“Kitty?”

“What?”

“Would you get my Sudafeds out of there? Since you’re standing there already?”

“Are you insinuating that my arse is big?”

WHAT.

“Sudafed. I need them.”

She laughs at him.

“God, I wish I’d seen your face…yeah, in a sec, I’ve got the iron in my hand.”

Oh, they’ll see who’s laughing in a minute. That was uncalled for and there is no safe answer to that question.

Oh, well. Revenge is forthcoming.

It takes three long, careful steps to bring him to the hallway outside the bathroom. It takes three long, agonizing minutes to hear the cabinet open.

It takes one more step to bring him to where he needs to be.

“…a mess, need to stop shoving things in ‘ere…there!” She closes the cabinet and promptly does a full-body jerk that sends the box of Sudafed flying over the shower railing and into the tub. “FUCK-! Really? Really?”

It shouldn’t be as funny as it is, but she looks like the world’s angriest elf and then, of course, the mental image of the stupid shoes and a green dress just makes it _better._ He doubles over, glasses slipping down his nose, and tries to breathe.

He is not successful.

“Why are you like this.”

He manages to choke out, “Angry elf.” before falling back into hysterics. The deep, _deep_ exasperation radiating from the bathroom does not help.

He’s going to die of laughter and he can’t muster up any thought besides, _worth it._

“Really.” He nods-or maybe spasms from lack of air, he’s not sure. She sighs and the exasperation intensifies. A pink, pointy hat appears on his mental picture and it does nothing to help.

The door slams and he sinks to the floor against it, arms bracing his ribs. He’ll regret this later, he’s sure, but for now…god…

Right. Breathe deeply. Breathe. Deeply.

Oh. He actually does need those Sudafeds, or that deep breathing is going to involve the inhalation of mucus.

Okay, so he regrets this a little bit-

**Clunk-creak!**

The door opens and he nearly topples backwards in time for the box to land on him with a light _whap-rattle!_ Oh, good. Pills. He stands up, shaking out the foil plate, and hunts through for an unbroken blister.

“I want a new medicine cabinet.”

“No.”

“Come on, I can’t trust you!”

“You shouldn’t have trusted me for this long.”

“Please?”

“I like the size of this one.” Ah, Sudafed, his old friend. “It’s fine, we don’t need a new medicine cabinet.”

She huffs at him and mutters, “I do not look like an angry elf.”

Just then, he registers that her dress is, in fact, green.

That’s it. The comparison is forever.

He tilts his head down to look at her and says, in the most innocent voice he’s got, “Oh, I don’t know…”

It’s his own fault, he’ll admit, that he ends up tackled onto their sofa.

THE END


	27. Claustrophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of enclosed spaces’, quite common in one form or another.
> 
> So the Batman-novel thing I scored for fifty cents and borrow from sometimes (Fear Itself) has a Subway Incident. This is a little bit borrowed from that. And by ‘borrowed’ I mean ‘we’re in a dark tunnel and Scarecrow is here’. Arkham-verse full stop, complete with…face.
> 
> I FORGOT to post this, so, uh…sorry?

Gotham’s underground is a maze, and no amount of Google-fu or library skills can help a person navigate them. Half of the old tunnels run off into the sewers-and thus into Killer Croc’s domain-and the other half…it’s a grab bag. But it’s dangerous, and no one in their right mind wanders around down there.

Naturally, it’s a common teenage hangout.

It’s dark, when one goes down there. Pitch-the strongest of flashlights only cut a few feet through the blackness in any direction. It’s not quiet. The sounds of the trains rumble through miles of old stone, and Gotham city, well, it’s a noisy place. At any given hour you can hear Driver A telling Driver B that their father should have stuck his prick in the garbage disposal, and Driver B telling Driver A that their mother is an STD-infested whore, and…

Well. It’s loud.

The underground is usually empty, but every so often groups of thrill-seekers will cross each other’s paths. It’s not common, but it happens.

**RUMBLE-RUMBLE-RUMBLE!**

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Yeah, okay, so Malcolm probably shouldn’t be down here alone, but it’s not like that much more dangerous than wandering around the city proper. It’s Gotham, the cesspit of America, where all criminals eventually come to.

Well, Metropolis has some, but fuck Metropolis. It’s too bright there. Freaks.*

Besides, his boss asked him to come.

Maybe. If that really was the boss.

Nobody’s seen the Scarecrow for six months, not since the incident at the asylum, and it’s been a bitter, bitter debate as to whether or not he’s dead. Malcolm always kinda figured nah, ‘cause the Masks never really die, but the Joker…

Eh, the Joker’ll probably come back. Nobody stays dead in Gotham.

Whatever the case, he got a text this morning-kinda weird for the boss, but okay-and he hauled ass to look less like a slob. The boss doesn’t like it when the boys look like slobs.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Shuuuuuuuu._

Why here, though, man? Why not at a nice, respectable part’a town, huh? Hell, even one’a the buildings around Crime Alley would be better than down here.

He’s just starting to think that maybe this is all bullshit when a yellow glow cuts through the darkness. Flashlight, close-HOLY MARY ON A FLYING UNICYCLE.

It’s Crane-the boss is unmistakable-but…uh…

Yeah. Croc. The rumors about Croc were not wrong.

He swallows, looks somewhere into the crushing darkness over the man’s shoulder. Crane is silent. Richardson-where the hell has she been, anyway?-adjusts her grip on his arm. Jesus. How.

_Why._

The mangled…face (and oh, he’s grateful for the dark, the flashlight’s not showing all of it and he could cry from relief) tilts.

“Malcolm.” Jesus. Even his voice is mangled, gravelly and raw. “Glad you could make it.”

He nods. Above them, a train speeds by and a few rocks fall to the ground. That doesn’t help the situation at all.

“Uh, s-s-sure, boss. Y’know. Uh, s’good to see you’re…” He swallows, tries to be calm. “Alive.”

Crane snorts, a nasty sound that turns into the gurgling, death-rattle cough of an old man.

“You could say that.” He takes a dragging step closer, the shambling movement making him look more like a scarecrow than ever-tilting, jerking, inhuman.

It’s times like these that Malcolm wishes he worked for the Riddler.

“So, uh, whatcha need, sir?”

More dust falls. His lungs seize, but he’s not sure if it’s being down here or the closeness of the boss that’s doing it.

Richardson starts to cough. It’s different than Crane’s-deeper, painful chokes that leave her gripping him like she’ll fall if she doesn’t. Malcolm knows that sound. Nana had it, before she died.

Shit.

“It’s time to pay Gotham a final visit, Malcolm.” Crane says softly. “Leave a…parting gift, if you will. You’re going to be the harbinger.”

Uh. He’s not sure what that is, but it sounds bad and he doesn’t want to.

“Sir-”

And then he’s choking on something bitter and definitely _not_ dust.

The tunnel closes even tighter around him, darkness curling around his limbs in vicious tendrils and crawling down his throat. He stumbles to his knees, struggling to shrink down enough for the space to grow, and it follows it _follows_.

 ** _“They’ll find you soon.”_** the Scarecrow snarls, and syringed fingers brush ever-so-gently across Malcolm’s neck. **_“But will it be soon enough for you?”_**

The darkness down his throat reaches his lungs and **squeezes** , and he has no breath to scream.

THE END

 

*Seriously, though, when Gordon was trying to get Falcone to come back in this season of _Gotham_ , my only response was, ‘holy shit, I’ve never seen so much sun on this show before and I’m frightened of it’.


	28. Traumatophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica got here through trying to be nice in ‘Stranger Danger’, located in last year’s 'Don’t Turn on the Light'. She turned out to be a badass. Go, girl, go! (But not too much, I still need him. Sorry.)
> 
> This is ‘fear of injury’, because it’s the closest I could find-interestingly, there doesn’t seem to be a name for the all-encompassing parental fear of ‘harm to one’s child’.

Jessica comes to on a cold cement floor. Her head is foggy and her only coherent thought is, _where’s Jon?_

“Mommy…Mommy.”

Jon is fine. Well, as fine as he can be, given the circumstances.

“S’okay, baby.” she murmurs. “S’gonna be okay.”

“It cold.”

“I know.” She forces herself to sit up and look at their surroundings. “We’re getting out of here.”

Their surroundings are dark. She can see large shapes-tables and cabinets, she thinks-but nothing specific. It smells bitter-yet-sweet, like a funeral home.

“Mommy?”

“Shh.” She can’t stand-she can’t even feel her leg, and when she puts her hand down she feels heavy wrapping-but she drags herself up a little more. What are they in? “Are we in a room, Jon?”

“Uh-uh. Cage. Like the circus aminals.”

Okay.

“Can you fit through the bars?”

“Donno.”

“Try.”

She hears him doing exactly that for a few minutes before whining, “I can’t.”

“Okay. It’s okay. Is there anything around like your baseball bat?”

Silence. She can hear him shuffling around-it’s not a big cage, doesn’t sound like. Hmm.

“No.”

“Okay. We’re gonna be okay…”

“Oh, you’re really not.”

She screams and yanks Jon closer to her. A chuckle slithers out of the darkness and a light turns on.

“What do you want?”

“We discussed this already.” The man comes forward. “Don’t be dense.”

She says nothing. There’s no reasoning with madmen.

He leans against the bars and she wishes, _god_ she wishes, that she could get up and punch the son of a bitch in damn balls.

“Who are you.”

He grins, a nasty smile with a few too many teeth.

“You’ll see.” He cocks his head. “Now, now…what _ever_ shall I do with you?”

“Stay back or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Seeing as you can’t even stand…I doubt that.”

“Wanna find out?” she threatens. “Touch my son and I’ll rip your balls off.”

He snorts.

“What is it with you mothers? Every single one of you makes that threat, and none of you get to carry it out…and what _is_ it that inspires such devotion, hmm? I know it’s not biological, no matter what you claim, so…” Thin fingers wrap around the bars. “No matter. I don’t particularly care. But it does provide a unique…opportunity.”

“Stay away from him.”

“I don’t normally like experimenting on children.” he continues. “Their voices are shrill, and I’d swear those screams can shatter an eardrum…but since I have one here already…”

Leg be damned, she surges up and stumbles towards the bars. He laughs at her and steps back, ignoring her clawing hands. She’ll teach him to threaten her son, claw out those pretty eyes of his and make him eat them!

“Fuck you!”

“Belligerent, aren’t you? I love those, they’re always so much fun to break.” She screams at him, feeling like a trapped animal. “Later, my dear, later. I’ll be down in a little while. Do sit down, that can’t be helping that leg of yours.”

She presses against the bars, trying desperately to get at him, and he clicks off the light.

* * *

When the light comes back on, it’s not the man, it’s the woman with the pipe. Close up, she’s a lot smaller than Jessica remembers. Though when someone is chasing you with a pipe…

“How’s that leg of yours?” She draws it back and pushes Jon back behind her. “Ungrateful little…I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Then take my son out of here, please-”

“Why would I do that?” She pulls up a chair. “Any swelling, numbness, feeling of maggots eating you alive?” Jessica scowls and purses her lips. The woman sighs. “You got shot in the leg. I know it hurts, but it’ll hurt more if I have to chop it off because it got infected.”

Fuck her. She doesn’t care. Let her come in here and try it-Jessica’s not above using her severed leg as beating instrument.

They sit in silence for several minutes, staring at each other, before the woman shrugs.

“Fine. I tried. But remember…can’t help your boy when you can’t even walk. I could walk right in there and-”

“Try it, then.” she hisses, low and deadly. “Come on.”

“Jonathan was right-you are awful.” Jonathan? Who the hell…oh. The asshole. “Whatever. It won’t be long now.”

And with that, the lights goes off again.

* * *

Jessica wakes to find a green man staring at her with no small amount of interest. He looks familiar…

“Please.” she whispers. “Please, you have to help me, before he comes back.”

“Oh?”

“Take my son.” She swallows hard. “Take him out of here before that bastard can hurt him. Please-”

The man’s brow furrows and he calls up the stairs, “Jon! Your subject is still sane!”

“Haven’t gotten to her! Get out of my lab!”

No. No!

“Please! I’ll give you anything you want. Money? Pussy? Anything-”

“Did you kidnap a streetwalker?”

“Get out of my lab, Edward!”

The green man steps back but doesn’t leave, preferring instead to reorganize a handful of bottles on a table.

“No rhyme or reason, a miracle he doesn’t go crazier than usual…”

“Please.” she says again. “I’ll stay here, just take my son, please, get him out of here-”

“Children have sticky fingers and germs.” the green man says. “Absolutely not. Besides, Jon would be upset.”

Jon?

“That’s my son.” Maybe if he knows his name it’ll be harder to depersonalize him, trigger some guilt. “He’s only four.”

“You have no idea who has you, do you?” He grins. “Riddle me this: you won’t find this mannequin in a field of cattle herds-instead he’ll be in a cornfield, keeping away the birds.”

Well. She knows who the green man is now, at least-the Riddler.

“Fuck off.”

“Your subject has no manners!”

“Quit antagonizing her and get out! And don’t touch my chemicals!” The Riddler tips his hat and saunters up the stairs. The hated voice greets him at the top. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times-stay out of there. It is delicate and you failed to learn what the rest of learned in third grade: look with your eyes, not your hands.”

“Sometimes I know your subjects! I was curious.”

“When have you ever known one.”

“You had an old hench of mine once.”

“Stay out.”

“You sons of bitches!” Jessica screams up the stairs. “When I get out of here, I’ll kill you both! I’ll chop your dicks off and choke you with them!”

Silence. Then the Riddler’s hushed voice says, “Hm.”

“She’s been very creative.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut the door.”

“That’s right, be afraid!”

They both laugh at that one and then the door shuts. Jessica scowls and limps to the edge of the cage. Still nothing to get them out of here.

“Mommy?”

“S’gonna be okay, baby, we’ll get outta here.” She sits back down, leg throbbing. “We’ll be okay.”

* * *

She wakes to the cheery (how DARE there be cheer!) jingling of keys. Jon is huddled near her knees.

“Rise and shine!”

They’re both here, now, and there’s a little light illuminating the room. Well, sort of-she can see bottles and handcuffs and what looks like a dentist’s chair, and her first, horrified, thought is, _oh, god, it’s some kinda sex dungeon._

Okay. They gotta open the door. Is there anything she can grab for? Are any of those vials dangerous-looking, like acid?

“That leg doesn’t look well.” the woman says. “I’m going to have to treat it or you’re down a subject.”

“Fuck you!” It comes out as a rasp, but they hear her.

“Please be quiet, the adults are talking.” The man adjusts his glasses and looks down at his companion. “You’re sure?”

“Mm-hm. Positive.”

Maybe even a broken bottle…if she can get them to take her closer to that table…

“Fair enough. Come here, Mister Mash.” An absolute giant of a man lumbers out of the shadows and she grabs for Jon, pulls him against her. “Take the boy.”

No. **NO.**

“You touch him and I’ll kill you.”

The woman opens the door with a long _creeaak!_ and the giant man steps in. He has to stoop, a little, and there’s no way to run around him, but she struggles up anyway and shoves Jon behind her.

“Get back.”

“Uh, boss?”

“I’m happy to use you as a replacement subject if she dies.”

“Right.”

The giant is faster than she thinks is fair and before she can do anything, he’s closed on her, grabbed her arm in one meaty hand, and yanked her to the side. Her leg bends wrong and she cries out, goes down and latches onto his ankles.

“Don’t you touch him!”

“Mommy!”

“Gently, Mister Mash…take him over there and keep him quiet.”

Jessica tries to bite the fucker’s ankle and gets a mouthful of denim. Grabbing for his balls (she’s not above twisting them the hell off!) gets her kicked in the ribs and forced back to the floor.

“No! No! You bastards, don’t you touch him!”

The thin man sighs.

“How about this, then. You allow Kitty to treat that leg of yours, and I’ll give him back. You have my promise. As I said, children are not good subjects. Too shrill, unable to articulate anything of value.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Do we have a deal?”

Jon’s crying, muffled behind the giant’s hand. She doesn’t have a choice.

“Fine.”

“Excellent.” The man’s glasses flash. “We are going to take you out now. Try anything, and Mister Mash there will crush the boy’s skull. That’s not instant death, by the way. Takes a few minutes. Sometimes there’s screaming, a bit of flopping around like a fish out of water…unpleasant to observe, I understand.”

Fine. She’ll be good. But the first chance she gets, even if it’s a shitty one…

They enter the cage and haul her up by the arms. She doesn’t try to stand on her own. Fuck them.

She’s dragged to the dentist’s chair and strapped down. The light is better here and she can see more bottles, more boxes. There’s a small flower box in the far corner of the room, filled with blue, spiky things, and that’s what makes everything _click._

“God no-”

“Hm…oh. _Now_ you know where you are, don’t you?” Jonathan Crane steps back. “I did wonder…do you need anything, Kitty?”

“No. Deep breaths, sweetie, this is going to hurt.”

It doesn’t. Not at first. The feeling of scissors going through dead flesh is more strange than anything, but then the sharp tips strike inflamed muscle and splintered bone.

Either she passes out or blocks out a significant chunk of time. Whichever it is, she comes back to reality with her throat sore and her leg throbbing. She can still hear Jon, though, and he’s still crying and snuffling but that’s good he’s okay he’s _okay._

“Well, we’ve got her out, she’s mostly stable, so if you want…you never did show me the new batch.”

“I didn’t?” Crane sounds playfully offended. “Forgive me, Kitty, I could have _sworn_ …we’ll have to remedy that.” He snaps his fingers and Jon’s crying comes closer. Jessica tugs at the restraints. They’re firm, but there’s give. Not much, probably not enough, but…maybe…if she can just get her thumb… “Stand there, Mister Mash. Wouldn’t want this one getting _ideas_.”

She’s got ideas, asshole. Most of them entail ramming a syringe through your eyeball.

Come on, come on, she’s seen people do this-

**Pop!**

It takes everything she’s got not to scream. But her thumb is out and now it’s _so_ easy to slip her hand out of the cuff. Now it’s a matter of waiting. He wants to experiment on her, he’s gotta get close.

And he does. He’s got a needle in his hand. It’s glowing, a little, a soft yellow light, and she’s got once chance or it’s all over for them.

She can’t fail.

“This particular batch is a little more violent than usual…higher incidence of self-maiming, hence the lack of free-roamers.” Heh. Good. “Tilt your head, now…deep breaths-”

She takes that deep breath.

And grabs for the hand with the needle, rips it free, and rams it into his neck, finger on the plunger.

“You. Let. My son. _Go._ ”

The monster smiles at her. _Smiles!_ Like she’s not a centimeter away from injecting him with his own damn poison!

“Well, well, look at you.” There’s the sound of a gun being cocked. “It’s all right, Kitty…very well, Mister Mash, release the boy. Gently, now…”

Jon’s crying suddenly increases in volume. It’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard in her life.

“Now undo the other cuff.” Nobody moves. “Fucking do it!”

Richardson unlocks it and Jessica motions to Jon with her free hand. He scurries over, sneakers scuffing against the tiles.

“Mommy?”

“We’re leaving, baby. We’re leaving right now.” She jerks her head. “I’m getting up. You try anything, I push this down. Got that?”

“Oh, of course.” WHY IS HE SMILING AT HER. “You have us all completely at your mercy.”

“Damn right.”

It’s an awkward movement, slow and jolting, but she manages to get up (and barely stay up, that leg is starting to shake and shake badly) without losing her leverage.

“Upstairs. Let’s go.”

That’s even harder, but the other two at least stay in the dark. Crane is starting to laugh a little, the movements making the needle wobble a tiny bit in her fingers.

It’s bright upstairs, painfully bright, and she has to squeeze her eyes nearly closed against the kitchen (kitchen? Yeah, there’s a stove.) light. Outside, it’s dark-

**CRA-ASH!**

She and Crane go down, Crane with a monstrous black shadow on him, and the syringe skitters across the floor. There’s quick footsteps coming up the cellar stairs and NO NO NO NOT AGAIN FUCK THIS THAT AND THEM.

She grabs Jon and scrambles away from the shadow. Or tries-her leg gives out and sends her sprawling.

“Go! Go to the police!”

Crane’s laughing in earnest now, jerking with hysterics like a dying insect, and the shadow rises.

The Batman. Holy. Shit.

**“You’re safe now.”**

Jon’s stopped crying, eyes wide, and Jessica can’t find words. The door opens and Batman twists, radiating cold fury.

**“It’s over.”**

Richardson-it’s her with the gun-doesn’t shoot at him. She smiles like Crane had done and sets it down, holds her hands above her head.

“Of course, Bats. Look at you, just in time to save the day.”

On the floor, Crane twists his head so he’s looking straight at her with those searchlight eyes.

“We’ll have to have a follow-up appointment.” he says, grin growing wider. “But until then…good night.”

THE END


	29. Pediophobia

AN: Okay, so last year I said I wouldn’t do it again (see ‘Bloody Mary’ in _Don’t Turn on the Light_ ) but I apparently lied.

_That would be Kitty’s fault._

_ What? No! I have never done anything wrong in my LIFE. _

_I hope you all appreciate the effort it takes to keep a straight face._

_ Really. _

_Kitty. I love you. I have literally murdered people for you. But that head, there…you removed it with a hacksaw. While he was still screaming._

_ Fair enough. _

Jeeze…this one means ‘fear of dolls’, which is understandable. Dolls are creepy, and old ones get that deathly pallor and yellow eyes.

* * *

Jim Murphy, if asked, fears nothing. Fear is for wimps, and he’s no fuckin’ wimp. Jim is a **MAN** , dammit, he ain’t afraid of jack shit.

Except dolls, and that is a secret he will take with him to the grave, being afraid of a little girl’s toy. He can’t help it, though. Something about those unblinking, glassy eyes…no. Just no.

So when he stumbles into his apartment one afternoon and finds a porcelain doll sitting on his counter, he feels justified in hurling the thing into the trash can hard enough to shatter its face.

It’s his bitch of a sister, and yeah, he knows that’s not PC or whatever, but she’s always thought it was funny. Locked him in the bathroom with her Barbies once.

Heart racing, he scrolls through his phone to find her number. What the effin’ hell, Clarice, this kind of shit isn’t funny, they’re not twelve anymore…

She doesn’t answer. Whatever. Screw her. He knows this was her.

Okay. What did his old shrink used ta say…breathe in for five, hold for three, exhale for seven.

Works, that. Shame the guy had to go and turn into a nut, he did wonders for Jim. Eh, that’s Gotham for ya.

He buries the doll under take-out boxes and a couple’a beer bottles and takes out the trash before bed. He’ll talk to Clarice tomorrow.

* * *

_That fucking cow-!_

Another doll, this one old enough to have yellowing eyes, is sitting in his cupboard, bowl and spoon propped in its lap. And this. Is. IT. Yeah, he knows he promised Ma on her deathbed to try to not hate his sister, but…but…

Breathe. Okay. She’s always been childish. Jealousy, maybe, he dunno. This is new, but whatever. Put the thing in the trash, clean out the fridge, call Clarice and…request…that she stop. Easy.

He rescues his dishes and sweeps the thing into the trash, shuddering. It stares at him from the bottom of the can, little smile hinting that it wants to murder him in his sleep.

If he’s a little vigorous dumping old pizza onto it, well…no one’ll know.

* * *

Jim comes home to an empty apartment and a power outage. Goddammit.

He stubs his toe three times on the same coffee table leg, because his life sucks, but he eventually comes up with the flashlight. Please have battery, please have battery- _yes!_

He clicks the light on and wonders how long the power’s been out. ‘Least he stopped for McDonald’s on the way home tonight…

He kicks off his shoes and wanders into the bedroom for a sm-WHAT THE FUCK.

His bedroom is not empty. His first thought is that someone’s broken in, but they’re just sitting on the bed. The flashlight catches old button-up shoes and a gray plaid dress and…and…

Oh god.

Oh. Clarice. Fucking Clarice, this is _enough._

He storms in, plucking up his courage to drag the damn thing out to the trash. He’s just reaching for the neck of the dress when the head-

-moves.

What the hell no no no-

He scrambles away, flashlight falling from sweaty fingers, and hears more than sees the thing stand up. Its gait is wobbly but it’s moving it’s _moving_ and he’s gotta get outta here-

_HISSSSS!_

He coughs, eyes watering, and two yellow dots cut through the dark. He turns to run, trips, and tries to crawl away. He gets maybe two feet before something sharp and cold presses against the back of his neck.

**_“Shhh.”_ **

The doll totters over. He can hear its shoes scuffing against the carpet and no no don’t come near him please go away…

**_“We never did finish that immersion therapy, did we, Mister Murphy?”_ **

WHAT.

“D-Doc?” He swallows tears. “Doc, please, you can stay here ‘til the heat’s off I won’t say nothin’ I _swear-_ ”

 ** _“This is good for you!”_** The cold thing leaves his neck and he’s kicked over. The flashlight illuminates shiny black shoes and the porcelain face stares impassively at him. **_“Now…let’s play house.”_**

THE END


	30. Samhainophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of Halloween’. One more. One more…and it’s so beautiful. Well. Not for Batman. But shh…

Halloween in Gotham is…complicated. On one hand, the city will invariably suffer some sort of horrible Scarecrow-related incident. On the other hand, Gotham is nothing if not stubborn, and it celebrates anyway with decorations and candy.

Jonathan Crane resents this. Every year-every _damn_ year!-he does something to them. Why. Haven’t. They. _Learned._ Four years now, he’s been active. Four. Years.

And yet, there they all are, putting out little bowls of candy and embarrassingly tacky ‘Happy Halloween!’ signs and fake pumpkins.

At least they’ve stopped putting up cartoony scarecrows. They learned those were bad, at least. (Well, except for the occasional transplant, but other than that…)

Still. What he wants is for the streets to be deserted, for Halloween to be declared a day of emergency, for the general population to prove that they are _slightly_ smarter than a box of rocks. Batman has learned. Even his little birds have learned-not that he ever lets any them out alone on Halloween. So why can’t the Good People of Gotham comprehend that Halloween is not a day of celebration, it is a day of terror?

It really isn’t that difficult of a concept to grasp.

He leans against the window, glass comfortably cold against his skin, and scowls at a cheery pumpkin sitting across the street. How dare it be cheery? It is a mockery of everything he stands for and he is not happy.

Not for the first time, he feels a surge of sympathy for the Grinch.

No matter. This will be the fifth year he’s been truly active, and they’re in for a real _treat_.

* * *

Gotham’s annual Halloween Parade has gotten a lot smaller and a lot less popular over the past few years, but it’s still done. ‘Tradition’, they say. Jonathan would call it ‘stupidity’, but no matter.

This might be its last year. That’s certainly his intention. He despises the Jack-o-lantern inflatable, the giggling jesters, the witches flinging candy into the crowd.

But no matter. He thinks he’ll rather enjoy himself this year.

Despite the public knowledge that today, of all days, should be a day to be wary of scarecrows, he avoids being seen as he makes his way through the throngs of fishnet-clad people, scythe in hand.

It’s tragic, really, that the most notice he gets is a drunk frat boy laughing and saying, “Wiiiiicked scythe, maaaaan!”

Oh, it is. It truly is.

He’ll have to hunt this one down later, see if his opinion remains the same.

The hated pumpkin is riding on a slow-moving wagon designed to look like a giant cart. A few people dressed as farmers are sitting with it, waving and smiling and throwing packs of candy corn (oh, to add insult to injury) at people. He’s almost tempted to let them continue. Candy corn is one of the worst things to inflict upon the innocent. Where is Batman when you need him…oh, that’s right, it’s broad daylight, he’s probably hanging upside-down somewhere.

Pity.

It’s no trouble, none at all, to swing himself onto the ridiculous float. One of the farmers turns, smile dropping a little, and manages to get out a, “Hey, man, you’re not s’posed ta-”

Then he swings the scythe, slicing the pumpkin neatly down the seam. Green (a little coloring, he wants them to _know_ what’s going to happen!) gas pours out, sweeping down the street in a cloud of terror.

While two of the farmers attack each other, screaming and clawing, the Scarecrow leans on his scythe and smiles.

Happy Halloween, Gotham.

THE END


	31. Agateophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Fear of insanity’. Takes place…sorta…during 'Arkham Asylum'. Recommended listening: Civil Twilight’s ‘How’m I Supposed to Die’.
> 
> Aaand that’s a wrap! (Ah, bookends…it appealed to my black, shriveled little soul.) As previously mentioned, this will have a playlist on 8tracks-see profile for the link. I will be back to sporadic, with the exception of finishing 'Masks' (Cigarette Smoke & Snark), because my fantasy novel is crying out for attention. Dragons, guys. There be dragons in it. :D
> 
> As always, good to see ya, and have a very happy Halloween.

_“B, c’mon already!”_

No. No, no, no-toxin. Just fear toxin, Crane had…well. It’s Crane, there’s one thing he really does well.

That doesn’t make it any easier to look at Jason, beaten bloody and with an oozing hole in his chest, bouncing up and down in front of him.

_“We’re gonna lose ‘im, move your old ass!”_

Hallucinatory-Jason has a point. Okay. Okay.

His lungs burn-side effect of the crap he’d breathed in-and he forces himself to take deep, even breaths to try and get this over with faster. He just has to-to remember that unless his fist is touching it, it might not be real.

And maybe not even then.

This was not what he’d expected when he’d put the cowl on all those years ago…sometimes, he wonders. He wonders if…if these people are his fault, somehow. If they’d risen to the challenge he created.

_“Gotham isn’t savin’ itself!”_

Arkham’s walls seem to tilt and writhe and he can’t be sure if those cockroaches are real or not. Doesn’t matter. Crane disappeared down the hall (thankfully, there’s only the one hall here) and that’s where he’s going to go.

He struggles up, putting his hand on the wall and possibly crushing a very crunchy-sounding roach, and nearly goes back down. His vision is trying to double and his heart refuses to what it’s told and _settle. Down._

Jason (not really, he’s not here, he’ll never be here again) makes an angry gesture that flicks drops of blood from broken fingers.

_“C’mon, ya can’t let this stop ya!”_

His heart’s just going to have to cope.

He wipes maybe-roach guts off on his cape, cracks his shoulders, and starts down the steadily-lengthening hallway.

All right. Crane…Crane came from. From the left. Medical’s that way, and he’s always been partial to that…that area. But he’ll probably figure that Bruce will track him there, because he’s insane, not stupid, so he would have gone to the right…unless he figured that Bruce would figure that, so.

Medical it is.

He stumbles over a corpse that he knows is real, toxin or no-it’s got Richardson’s signature (shattered kneecaps and a devastating blow to the skull) all over it. The computer supplies him with the name of a doctor, fond of electroshock therapy.

_“I don’t look that bad, do I?”_

He keeps his mouth shut, closes the man’s eyes (as best he can, anyway, his face is…not intact) and steadies himself as the floor pitches under him.

“You don’t look so well, Bats.”

He hurls a Batarang at her but it. It doesn’t.

Either she’s not here or his aim is off, because it doesn’t hit her. She shakes her head at him and taps the object (crowbar? Pipe? He can’t tell, it’s metal and there’s blood and brain matter on it) in her hand against the ground.

“You should be resting, old boy. Doctor’s orders. I mean, I think he meant resting six feet under, but…”

_“Okay, I’ll distract her with short jokes and you tackle her, sound good?”_

(Never coming) short jokes aside, the safest way to deal with her _is_ sudden brutality. And that’s exactly what he does-drops a smoke pellet and lunges for her, only-

-to go straight through her.

“Oh, this is a strong batch.” she says from…somewhere. (Is she even here at all?) “Good to know.” She taps the metal thing against the ground again, a heavy **clang-clang!** echoing up and down the hallway. “Come on, Bats…we’ve been waiting for you.”

The speakers crackle but instead of the Joker, a chorus of children giggle and chant, “Come play with us, Batman! Forever and ever and **_ever_**.”*

He can see her (maybe) through the smoke, walking backwards and beckoning to him.

“Catch me if you can.”

And then she just. Vanishes.

Damn.

The smoke clears. The corpse has been kicked over, eyes half-open again, but other than that, she may not have been here at all. Maybe she wasn’t-he could have done that, another patient, it could have been like that when he found it…

No. No, she was here, she had to have been here. He doesn’t have proof that she wasn’t (or that she was), and right now, she’s his best leading to finding Crane before he can cause more damage.

**BEEP!**

From down the hall, there’s a chorus of shrieking laugher and resignation settles into his chest. The speakers crackle again.

“Oooooooops! Wroooong button!” The Joker giggles and Bruce can just _see_ him rocking back and forth. “Here come your adoring fans, Bats!”

The chorus grows closer and real or not, it sounds like the handful of patients that have been here since Crane was the director. The ones he…treated.

_“Well, shit.”_

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say _language, Robin_ , but he bites it back and retreats, instead, into an air vent just as a mob of shrieking, teeth-gnashing patients round the corner.

* * *

He hasn’t seen Richardson again, but she’s easy to track-just follow the trail of corpses. Of Crane, there’s no sign.

At least, not until he reaches Medical.

The (probable) first sign of Crane’s presence is the twitching, gasping orderly sprawled on bloody tiles, maybe-roaches scurrying over him with their twitching antennae. The blood is coming from a head wound, and it doesn’t take much to determine that the orderly tripped, fell, and hit his head. Head wounds bleed. God, what a near-heart attack he’d had the first time Dick cut his head on an open cabinet, of all things…

Oh, for such simpler days.

He crouches down, pins the man’s hands together against his chest, and continues his observation. No visible track marks-aerosol formula, then, likely the same one he’s…dealing with. No other signs of bodily harm.

Green, twisted fingers grab a maybe-roach out of the puddle of blood and let it scuttle into a bullet hole.

_“Kinda tickles, actually.”_

Eyes. On. The victim. The victim is a living, breathing (bleeding) thing. Jason is not.

_“B! Hey, B, watch this!”_

He looks up out of habit (will that ever fade?) in time to see Jason grin and open his mouth to let the roach climb out over his teeth and fall to the floor with a sickening **whap!**

_“Ta-da!”_

The orderly jerks and inhales suddenly, bitten lips moving quickly.

“No, no-”

“It’s a hallucination.” Hopefully the man can even hear him. “Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. You were attacked by the Scarecrow. Do you remember that?”

He nods, swallowing hard, and Bruce thinks the roaches must not be real or they’d be crawling into him or at least _reacting_ to the movements beneath them.

“C-c-caaaaaaame outta nowhere-”

“Did you see where he went?”

A hand jerks, fingers curling, towards the doors at the end of the hall. Bruce nods.

“Good.”

He only feels a little bad for the surprise sedation, but it’s for the man’s own good. He tucks him out of the way, in a broom closet, and radios Cash.

He’s sure he’s imagining the way the doors are still swinging, ever so slightly, on their hinges. All the same, he approaches with caution. Toxins aside, he’s seen (failed, always failing, isn’t he) one poor cop lose his head to that scythe. Took less than a second-walked too close to an open doorway, and…well.

The room behind the doors (the morgue) is dark, the only lighting being the emergency bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Crane could be anywhere in here. In a body bag, in a locker, in the shadows…or he could not be here at all. Bruce isn’t the only one who can get into the vents.

A gurney rocks on rusted wheels as Jason flops onto it, hands hanging towards the filthy tiles. Bruce ignores him, focuses on a locker door that’s halfway off its hinges, banging gently. A centipede pulls itself through a gap in the wall, scurries into the dark with a soft _scrapescrapescrape._

**Clang-clang! Clang-clang!**

_Squeak!_

It’s an effort not to tell Jason to stop playing on the gurney.

Right. Crane’s not in any of the lockers. He’ll check the body bags and if he’s not there, Bruce will have to assume

_“Y’know what they say ‘bout assumin’, B!”_

(Oh, that had been Jay’s favorite saying. Bruce suspects it’s partly because he could swear in front of Alfred without retribution.)

that Crane’s taken the vents out. Or wasn’t here in the first place.

He’s just reaching for the nearest zipper when there’s the sound of the doors bursting open. He whirls, Batarang in hand, only to see them swinging wildly, with no sign of why. There’s no footsteps. No cackling. Just swinging doors.

The walls curve and bend in on him and he tries to breathe, tries to get his vision to stop blurring so badly. He’s. He’s in medical, in the morgue. That’s real, he knows it’s real because he’s leaning on a gurney. That’s. That’s real. The wiggling body bag on the gurney is not. He knows this because body bags don’t wiggle. They lie still

(still as a boy sprawled on filthy tiles still as a man and a woman slumped in a dark alley _still_ )

and silent.

He opens it anyway.

It’s empty.

* * *

A whistle echoes down a white hallway. Bruce’s head hurts, but he’s betting the man he’s just knocked out is going to have it worse when he wakes up.

Especially because his comrades consider ‘gunfire’ to be an acceptable way of getting him down from his gargoyle prison. He suspects he should care more.

_“You’re pretty good at not carin’, B, s’fine.”_

His jaw clenches. In front of him, Jason grins, forms a gun with his fingers and presses them to his head.

_“I mean, I kinda doubt your parents wanted ya to dress up like a ninja and beat the crap outta criminals. ‘N then you got me killed, so…”_

“I tried to save you, Jason.” he whispers involuntarily. “I tried.”

The hallucination shrugs, drops the hand and wiggles a finger into the bullet hole.

 _“Uh-huh. I noticed.”_ He tilts his head back, revealing bloody holes from barbed wire in his neck. _“Whatcha think?”_

What-

Jason’s not alone in the hallway now. Behind him are…are…

They’re not real. He’s not real, they’re not real, Bruce is _alone_.

Mother and Father stand before him, unsmiling, unhappy. Thankfully (or not, he deserves to see what his childish whims brought them) their black raincoats cover any injuries. The coats are wet, dripping red rainwater that runs through the grout lines on the floor.

 _“I told you he wasn’t well.”_ Mother says. She puts her hand on Father’s arm and shakes her head. _“Look at him.”_

No.

“You’re dead.” he says firmly. “All of you.”

_“Yeah, thanks a lot, Bruce.”_

He moves, intending to go straight through them (half the time Crane’s hallucinations vanish like smoke when touched), but Father tilts his head (did he used to do that something isn’t right _he’s not here of course it’s not right_ but) and he…can’t. It’s like he’s eight again, and did something he shouldn’t have.

_“You’re quite right.”_

Maybe. Maybe if he apologizes (always so sorry _so sorry_ ), maybe that will be enough.

“I.” His voice cracks in a way it hasn’t since… “I’m sorry.”

Father pulls a piece of straw out of his jacket and snaps it. It sounds like a breaking bone.

_“Is that so?”_

Wait-

Mother and Father flicker and for a second or two, the dripping coats are old straitjackets and Mother’s umbrella is a pipe, but then everything is as it should be.

But that second was enough…enough to remember that apologizing to the dead is useless, and that he has work to do.

“You’re. Not. Here.”

Father smiles, indulgent, almost like he used to when Bruce asked for ice cream after dinner. Almost. Not exactly.

 _“Oh, but we_ are _here.”_ he whispers, moving forward in a jerky, uneven way. _“We’re always here. In your head.”_ A cold (how can he know it’s cold?) finger jabs his cowled forehead. _“Remember that.”_

“No-”

 _“Yes.”_ he hisses, and he’s taller now than Bruce remembers, even granting the lens of childhood. _“Oh, yes. Don’t try to lie to yourself, it’s impossible.”_

Maybe it is. But he doesn’t have to lie to himself now.

He moves, joints cracking as they’re jerked to new positions, and Mother swings the umbrella at him. He grabs it, feels cold, sticky metal rather than fabric, and the illusion shatters.

 ** _“Look at you, Bats!”_** Scarecrow spreads his hands, the liquid in his syringe-clad fingers sloshing a little. **_“You were always my finest subject…so determined. You’ve had enough of my toxin to drive ten men insane, and here you stand, ready as ever!”_**

Damn right.

He rips the pipe out of Richardson’s grip and flings it aside. It bounces off the walls with a resounding **CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!**

“It’s over.”

 ** _“Or maybe…maybe you’re already mad, Bats.”_** Scarecrow barks a laugh and swipes with the glove, needles just missing Bruce’s arm. **_“You’re one of us!”_**

“I’m nothing like you.”

“Little quick to deny, huh?” Richardson’s moving in a quick, ratlike scurry towards the electrical box. If she thinks a little more darkness is going to stop him, she’s had one too many knocks to the head. “Face it, old boy, you belong with us. You always have.”

And then she yanks on the lever.

Bruce is expecting darkness-looking forward to it, in fact. What he gets is a cloud of smoke that stings his eyes and sends him scrambling for a gas mask.

_Damn!_

He stumbles forward, eyes locked on Scarecrow’s yellow eyes, and staggers against the wall.

_Can’t breathe can’t breathe-_

A hand grabs his arm and he’s pulled down the hall, out of the smoke. He can make out…orange. That’s all. One of the guards-no, no, they’re blue not orange and the doctors are white.

Inmate?

That doesn’t make sense.

 ** _“Run and run as fast as you can!”_** Scarecrow’s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. **_“I’ll hunt you down, little gingerbread man!”_**

The hand lets go the second they’re out of the smoke, and by the time his vision clears enough to see anything that’s not ‘colored blob’, he’s clearly alone, and there’s no sign that anyone else was there at all.

THE END

 

 

* _The Shining_. But you should know that.


End file.
